Always an Edward
by LifeInTheSnow
Summary: Bella wants to say yes to kind, handsome Ed…but can't stop meeting Eddie for martini lunches. Eduardo just wonders why she's avoiding his yoga class. And who is this "Edward" leaving cryptic messages at work? A story about people and how they change.
1. Chapter 1

**Always an Edward**

**Summary: **Bella wants to say yes to kind, handsome Ed…but can't stop meeting Eddie for martini lunches. Eduardo wants to know why she's avoiding his yoga class. And who is this "Edward" leaving cryptic messages at work? A story about people and how they change.

**Chapter One: The Unknown**

On Tuesday afternoon Lauren puts a call through to me in a way that gives me pause. I'm in the middle of removing a staple from a receipt, and I literally pause. My eyes flit to my closed office door, even though I know she can't walk in and be answering the phone at the same time.

While it's true that I'm sheepish—Lauren will scold me for processing my own expense reports when I know she knows I have work to do before the board meeting—that's not what puts me off kilter. It's what she says.

"It's an Edward for you."

Her voice over the speakerphone is all business, but her words are ridiculous. Is she messing with me? It's always an Edward for me. Usually it's a _certain_ Edward. This one or that one, but usually a definitive one. By now they know to identify themselves, and Lauren knows to listen. Today, in particular, it matters to me; I'm avoiding Edward Seven and hoping to hear from Edward Two. I hedge.

"Lauren—hold on. Tell me exactly what he said to you."

"He just asked for Bella Swan, and he said…'_Please tell her it's Edward calling'_."

"Just…Edward."

"That's right."

It can't be a cold call, or he'd be asking for_ Isabella_. And if it were one of the regulars, she'd recognize his voice.

I sigh. It wasn't always this way. It only started to become a "thing" with Edward Three and a sort of joke around the time of Edward Four. It isn't even that I only ever meet Edwards; I just meet more than my fair share of them.

She sends the call into hold on my direct line so I can pick it up, but I just stare at the blinking light. A feeling stirs. The hairs on the back of my neck threaten to stand up. They only threaten. I stare at the blinking light and make a decision that has the appearance of a non-decision.

I intercom Lauren. "Will you pick this back up and tell him I'm on a call? Something? I'm sorry. Make it sound sincere. I need a moment here." She'll caller-ID his number, too. She's good like that.

I'm still gripping the staple remover in my palm. A tiny filament of metal dangles between the prongs like a strand of spaghetti in a dog's jaws. Or maybe more like a stick for throwing. _Let's play._ I glance back at the little red light on my desk phone. The light has gone from blinking to steady, telling me Lauren is talking with "Edward". Then it goes dark. If I were to pick up the handset now, I'd hear a dial tone. I drop the staple into my trash bin.

I'm thinking of Edward Three, though I doubt it's him on the phone. Edward Three was a talented lawyer who also turned out to be a Harley mechanic, a light bondage dabbler, and a sweetheart. And an alcoholic, sadly. He was the one who noticed the _E_ signature on a tiny framed drawing above my desk and the _E _branding Eddie's sweatshirt in my snapshot on the fridge from that time we went cliff-diving. Number Three drew a line in the air from one E to the next to the next—himself—and outlined my type. _It starts with E and ends with D._ Always an Edward. It didn't end with him. It still hasn't ended. Or has it? Maybe.

Edward Six is a dream. He's good to me. Quick to laugh, with shining eyes and broad shoulders that make the ladies on the street turn their heads. He teaches math at the local high school. Loves the people I love. Picks up the dry cleaning as often as I do. It's more than that, even. He makes me feel lighthearted and hopeful. We'd known each other a week when he asked me to marry him as a joke. He's asked me since then, too—not a joke. I look at him sometimes and picture myself saying _yes_. The idea makes me smile. More often than not, it makes me smile.

We call Edward Six "Ed" to keep things clear. By we, I mean Eddie and me. Eddie is only retroactively and somewhat ironically known as Edward Two. He's my best friend, the handsome boy-wonder mayor of our poor little careworn town of Forks, and as gay as the day is long. Thanks to one alcohol-fueled summer full of sophomoric dares and idiotic bumbling, I take a small amount of satisfaction in being the only woman on earth who knows exactly what kind of heat he's packing—and no, I'll never tell. It doesn't matter. One look at Emmett, his enormous superhero of a boyfriend, and most people draw their own conclusions. Emmett, for his part, is ruled by another organ: Eddie's heart.

Eddie tells me Ed is the best thing to happen to me in a decade, and he's right. When he says this, he's being unsubtly uncharitable toward Edward Five. Eddie doesn't pull punches when it comes to the only person who's ever really wronged me. I love this fierce loyalty of his, though I remind him that when it comes to Number Five, I prefer to let bygones be bygones.

Well, I may not prefer it. I only try to practice it. This practicing is what Edward Seven reminds me to do. _Letting go is the work._ _Don't try to achieve_, he says. _Try to practice. Only practice. And use your breath_. Number Seven has almost no ego. He couldn't care less that I've renamed him Eduardo for the sake of simplicity. _Simple is good,_ he says. _Call me Eduardo. Call me Hey, Guy_. He's refreshing to be around. I really need to stop skipping yoga.

Lauren raps on the door and strides in, frowning at me and my inefficient use of this critical pre-board meeting day. She reaches her empty palm out to me. I see no hint of the yellow Post-its she likes to use for phone messages. No details, then.

"Blocked number." She gently tugs the expense paperwork from my hands. "I'll take those. You work on the financial reports. He said he'll call back. Edward, that is."

I let her see me shrugging it off, calling up the grant revenue presentation she's been urging me to review. To be honest, I fine-tuned this last night, balancing my laptop on my knees in bed while Ed and I watched Jon Stewart.

Wild Clallam is the small nonprofit I founded six years ago. My proudest accomplishment in life is having built it up to the point where we have four full-time professional staff members—Lauren, Angela, Ben, and me—running wildlife conservation programs that involve hundreds of volunteers from the community. The financial side of it isn't my favorite, but I manage.

Once the door is closed behind Lauren, I slump back into my chair, twirling. I let myself entertain the possibility that Edward Four—Teddy—is trying to track me down to make plans for his visit next month. Teddy isn't my nickname for him; it's his family's. We dated for a few months seven years ago, which is how I met Emmett—they're brothers. I introduced Emmett to Eddie, and the rest is history.

Teddy is a sweet and scatterbrained baker. Not the stoner kind—not nowadays. No. He's the flour and yeast kind. He runs a little shop of his own in Seattle called Ted's Breads. I should know better than to imagine he might be calling me up in advance. His innocent, puppy-like inability to focus was what drew me to him in the first place…and it was what led to our breakup. He'll swoop into town and go with the flow, charming the socks off of everyone in sight. It will be nice to see him. Emmett can't stop talking about it. But no, Teddy doesn't do advance planning.

I've run out of ways to distract myself. I can't avoid the truth.

I know who called. My memory unfolds itself, trotting out glimpses of scenes that are barely ever allowed to come to the surface.

~.~

_January 1999_

_Dear Alice, _

_Well, I've been dumped. What should I do? I should have expected this, right? A first boyfriend has to inevitably become a first ex-boyfriend. Nobody stays together forever with their first—I never believed we would. I just didn't know it would be over this soon. _

_I feel foolish. I feel like I should cry and weep in a lump on my bed, but I don't feel anything. Or I feel too many things. I miss him. He scares me. He says I scare him, too. Only because I don't act how he expects or something. And because I don't share what I feel, he says. Who does that? Who talks that way? We're eighteen, in our first year of college. Well, I am anyways. And he's nineteen. We're supposed to be dying our hair blue and puking in bushes or whatever.  
><em>

_I never know how to be around him, what he expects, what's the normal thing to do, and what's just my idiocy and general all-around lameness. We disagree…or disagreed…about everything. Except, not everything—only important things, like poststructural theory. He's a formalist, for crying out loud. Can you imagine me falling in love with someone who only cares about Reader Response analysis? _

_He asked me that, can you believe it? Not about theory. He asked me if I was in love with him. This was mid-breakup, by the way. I didn't have any idea what to say. I wanted to say, "Just give me more time. I'm falling." Maybe I am—or was. But that would sound like begging him to take me back, right? I can't make a fool of myself. We're stuck on this campus together until he graduates in two years. What will he tell his friends? How will they treat me? I barely knew them._

_God, Alice, he's such a good kisser. I can't think about that. Maybe kissing is just like that with everyone. How should I know? I wish I hadn't waited so long to, you know, get started. I was waiting for something to feel right, just like I promised you that day after you went to homecoming with Tyler and he made you cry. And then it did—it felt right. And now it's over. I won't forget some things, I know. There's something about the way he held me all night. I never expected it to feel so sweet. The way his lips moved against the back of my neck when he thought I was asleep. Even though it will torture me, I can't let myself forget that._

_I'm sure it will all fade for me in another few days. We were together for ten weeks. That's ridiculous. It's not even that long; I can't be torn up about it. Did I mention he eats meat? I'm a vegetarian. It had to end. Right? I need something to tell myself, anyhow. Just…something._

_I miss you, friend. More later. _

_Love, Bella_

_~.~_

There is only one person who would identify himself in the way Lauren described. One person who wouldn't know where he fell in the sequence, or even that there was a sequence. Because at the time, all those years ago, there was just him.

Original Edward. Edward One. Just…Edward.

_~.~_

_AN: Confused yet? Considering making a color-coded chart? This story is probably not for canon purists…but otherwise it should be a fun, odd, romantic roller-coaster ride. I hope. The plan right now is for a mid-length story with updates every 10-14 days or so. Many thanks to __**happymelt**__, who betas and talks me down from ledges; and to __**midsouthmama**__ and__** faireyfan,**__ who preread and help avert grammar catastrophes._


	2. Chapter 2: Friendship

**Always an Edward**

**Summary: **Bella wants to say yes to kind, handsome Ed…but can't stop meeting Eddie for martini lunches. Eduardo wonders why she's avoiding his yoga class. And who is this "Edward" leaving cryptic messages at work? A story about people and how they change.

**~.~  
><strong>

**Chapter Two: Friendship**

On Thursday morning I blink awake extra early. I take a few lazy moments to watch Ed sleep. His tall, strong body, so impressive and purposeful when we walk down the street side by side, turns into a jumble of wayward limbs when he's asleep. He's all elbows and angles this way. All discombobulated. I like it. His muscles are warm under his smooth skin.

It isn't often that I'm the first one up. When it happens, I like to wake him with gentle kisses, challenging myself to ease him out of sleep more gradually every time. Ed laughs softly when he discovers the position his body is in, spread out and dangling one leg off the bed. He comes to life and wraps himself around me. He seems so happy to be woken up so sweetly, and then I feel happy that he's happy.

If I could live in this moment, I would. But we have our lives to get to. Forty minutes later, we're our workaday selves: showered, clothed, efficient. He sweetens my coffee. We juggle messenger bags and travel mugs to peck one another's lips goodbye.

~.~

When I look at the new numbers waiting in my inbox, I see that Wild Clallam is close to meeting a revenue goal that will mean expanding a much-loved wilderness immersion program. The subsequent planning work keeps me happily distracted all morning. Ed and I had a serious-business relationship talk last night, and if I didn't already have Eddie on tap for lunch today, I'd be calling him now for an emergency debriefing.

Periodically throughout the morning, Ed sends me snapshots from his cell phone. He's on a field trip to the Dungeness Spit with his advanced math students, and he's having them use mathematical formulas to describe the tides and create predictive models for the changing terrain.

He knows the Spit is one of my favorite places on the Peninsula. Most people associate wilderness with forests, especially here in the Pacific Northwest, but the sandy coastline is wilderness, too. I let myself daydream about the breezy openness of the miles-long sand bar. Solid land underfoot. Wide stretches of murky water blending into hazy sky on either side. The slate-gray shoreline always makes me feel a particular sense of calm and of wide-open possibilities.

Ed has a different way of looking at wide-open possibilities. He sees them as both a thrill and a threat. It's not good or bad; it's just him. I chuckle a bit to think of him guiding his students through an exercise of measuring and predicting the effects of nature using math. I don't have the heart to tell him that type of thinking is the polar opposite of everything I love about that spot.

When my email pings with a message from him entitled "Plotted important data for you," I bite my lip before opening the attachment. But then I'm laughing: it's a sketch of my breasts on graph paper.

I steal peeks at the clock until it's finally time to break, then I scurry past the yoga studio on my way to The Evergreen Lodge. I pretend to search for something in my bag in case Eduardo is pacing near the studio's picture window like he sometimes does. I'm fooling no one, of course. Underneath his even-keeled temperament, Eduardo takes notice of everything.

Eddie is ten minutes late meeting me, but at least he gives me his full attention as soon as he takes his seat. He makes a show of powering down his smartphone as he settles into our booth, grinning.

"See? It's off. More than silent—off! How are you, sweetness? Sorry I'm late." He cranes his neck, searching out the waiter. "My word, I'm starving. Emmett ran me halfway to the Rez this morning. I wanted to hip-check him into traffic. Except there wasn't any traffic."

"You'll be thanking him in a month. Right around mile twenty." They're training for the Olympia marathon in May.

"Oh, I'll be thanking him before then. What's going on with you?" He leans back as if to get a fuller perspective on me, tilting his head this way and that. "You're all…weird."

"Hmm. It could be that Ed and I had the marriage talk last night." I flip the specials table tent back and forth, inspecting both sides. I don't know why. It never changes.

"What, again? No, that's not it."

"Eddie, be serious. This time he got sort of emo."

"Yeah, but _you_ didn't. Did you?" He watches me turn my face away. "I didn't think so. There's something else."

I play dumb and nod to Walter, who is hovering nearby. "I got a mystery hanger-upper call at the office on Tuesday. Seltzer with lime, please."

"Oh? Any heavy breathing, at least? I'll take a lemonade." Eddie barely glances up at Walter as he places his drink order.

"Lauren talked with him." I watch Eddie break a slim cracker in half. I adopt a nonchalant expression. "I think it was….Edward. One."

Eddie's eyes lock onto mine, even as he rotates his head in slow motion in the general direction of the wait station. "Walter, dear. Change of plan. Bring us two gin martinis. Four—no, six—olives. Total, not apiece."

"I have the board meeting to prepare for. I can't—"

"It's in four days, and you've been ready since Monday. Stop."

I scan the room to see if any of my donors or volunteers are in the restaurant.

"No one cares if you get sloshed, Bell. You're with the mayor, remember? For all they know, we're wheeling and dealing here."

This always makes me laugh, and he knows it—this mock self-importance. As mayor of Forks, Eddie is in charge of about one traffic light and not much more.

"So. Edward One, huh? As in _college _Edward? The man who made you throw your brokenhearted self into my capable arms?" He flexes a smallish bicep as if to punctuate his sarcasm.

I purse my lips to keep from laughing at the memory of my epically ill-advised fling with Eddie so soon after things ended with Edward. But then I shake my head. "I was hardly brokenhearted. I dated him for ten weeks; it was no big deal."

"_So_ not a big deal. So much not—er, so little so—I mean, so very not-a-big-deal that you've never said a single word about it."

I shrug. "Maybe if you'd met him. I only rehash those other guys because, well, you know them. Knew them. Whatever."

"Right." Eddie flashes a brilliant smile at Walter, who is setting down our drinks. Then he turns his smile on me. "Right. Let's go with that, shall we? Why was he calling?"

"I don't know. He didn't leave a message."

Now I'm wondering why I even brought this up. But then again, I do know. Eddie knows how to do this dance with me. I float a conversation topic. He nibbles. I reel it in again. Things marinate. We revisit.

"Just…out of the blue, after twelve years, he calls and hangs up?"

"I'm not even sure it was him. He told Lauren he'd call back. Do you know what the soup is?"

He rolls his eyes. "Clam. Moving on. In a theoretically unrelated development, would you like to tell me why you won't get heterosexual-married to your current, very loving and handsome boyfriend?"

"Nothing's changed on that front. And I haven't said no. Is it the creamy kind or the tomato kind?" I squint at the chalkboard at the back of the restaurant, trying to make out the soup.

"New England. Creamy." He raises his glass to toast me. "To not saying no."

"To not saying no." The gin stings my lips and tongue. It's not altogether unpleasant.

I drag my olive-laden toothpick across the transparent oil spill lingering on the surface of my drink, and it occurs to me I've been sitting and draining martinis with Eddie off and on for more than a decade. It's not always martinis, either. Sometimes it's bowls of popcorn. Coffee. I never feel pressured with him. And I've never felt judged by him, even when he's needling me and giving me a hard time about owning up to my issues.

I don't have that with anyone else—not even Ed.

"But…" He chomps on an olive. "Not saying no isn't yes. Friend, I know you love that boy straight down to the champion stem cells in his blue-ribbon bone marrow. What's the issue?"

That's a turn of phrase I haven't heard from him before. It feels right, though. I love Ed. Hard. "I do."

Walter is back to take our orders, and while Eddie runs through a litany of substitutions and specifications for his sandwich, I think about how to get at what I'm feeling in a way that might be useful. And then Walter is gone, and Eddie is looking at me expectantly.

"He does this thing sometimes…I'll be reading or sorting through the mail, and I'll look up to see him just gazing at me. And that's when I can see that he has such high hopes for us…I mean, he really believes in us. For…forever." I can barely spit the word out—it unnerves me that much. "I'm just so afraid of disappointing him."

Eddie raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth, and I can just hear him saying, _Sure, because standing there with a ring in your hand and no takers isn't at all disappointing. _

"Wait, let me finish. When it comes to everyday life stuff…I find myself being kind to him instead of honest. Not that I'm hiding anything, exactly. It's just that he makes everything so smooth and pleasant, the only legitimate reaction is to appreciate him. And I do appreciate him. I just sometimes wish he would challenge me more. Ruffle my feathers. Otherwise, how will I know I can say literally anything to him, the way I can with you, you know?"

"And yet you find a way to say a hard thing when it really matters. For instance, each time you tell the man you aren't ready to marry him, how does he react then?"

"He lightens up. He makes himself understood, but he doesn't pressure me. He knows what's underlying everything, and he gets it." I shake my head.

What I understand from last night's talk is just how much Ed wants to get married. I can't make a mistake with this one. He's too good. That's why I need to be sure.

Eddie doesn't probe further. He knows I'm an expert at sending myself on guilt trips, unprompted. Ed might know it, too.

Our meals materialize, then a second round of drinks, then coffee and shortbread cookies. Bit by bit, Eddie eases me into a comfort zone and talks me through my options. This is why he's the rock of our one-stoplight town. He doesn't get stymied. He finds a way.

I call Lauren and ask her to email some files to me so I can work from home later, since I'm not going back to the office after this. By the time Eddie and I wrap things up, I've got a plan of action worked out.

"All right." Eddie shuffles our scribbled note pages into a neat pile. "Criteria one. I mean, _criterion_ one. Singular. There." He pencils in the edit. "Do you want to read it, or should I?"

"You go."

"Criterion one: friendship. Totally reasonable. You want to marry your best friend…present company excluded, obviously. And you agree that means _allowing _a certain person to be your best friend."

I nod. At the outset of this little exercise of ours, Eddie made me promise I wouldn't look at it as a simple yes-or-no checklist, but as a sort of task list. Things to explore, build, share.

The list goes on: lifestyle compatibility; reliability; trust, which is just a shade different from reliability—but an important shade; emotional availability; and something Eddie tells me to call "dreaminess" for lack of a better word.

He makes me promise not to compromise on this last one. I think he's pantomiming how my face should look when I feel it, and then I realize Emmett is behind me, walking in from the street and switching a light on inside Eddie's soul somewhere.

I get a kiss on the cheek from Emmett, and Eddie gets his on the lips. By now Ed is back from his day at the Spit, so I call him and then there are four of us. We go for lemonades and a stroll in the park, then an early dinner. Two couples in love, simple and straightforward. I feel better than I have in weeks. The doubts and second thoughts stay at bay for longer than usual this time. Not forever, naturally. But for a good long while.

~.~

_April 1999_

_Dear Alice, _

_Pardon me while I skip straight to venting. Ugh! I don't understand the madness that is my life. Unpredictable people are so…unpredictable. I've already described to you the drama between my parents. Well, it seems to be past the point of no return. My mom is looking at apartments in Forks, so now the whole town knows. Thanks, rumor mill. It's hard enough feeling this sad for them both and sorry for myself. Now I also get to have everyone watching me, waiting for me to have an epic public meltdown or something. Especially after the show I gave everyone a year ago. _

_I'd say I'm relieved to be living here on campus, insulated from it all, except that my roommate is almost worse. Rosalie is a raging bitch half the time, and moderately snotty the rest of the time. I thought it was getting better last fall, but then it suddenly got worse. When she's hooking up with someone, I don't see her for weeks on end—except from afar sometimes, walking around campus in this pack or that pack of people, at house parties, at concerts. She's friendly with Edward's friends. I haven't seen the two of them together, thank God. _

_That's the other thing. This business of sharing a campus with him is everything I was afraid of—and worse. His drawing studio meets at the same time as my writing seminar, and we all empty out into the same courtyard when it's time to take a break. He's smoking again, off and on. He usually sketches on a pad, even though it's break time, and I can see that he's giving his friends the cold shoulder. Other times, it's like he's holding court, everyone hanging on his every word, laughing. _

_Three weeks ago he sought me out and started making small talk about the X-Files and whether I liked the new Neutral Milk Hotel record. The next week he was back in his bubble again. Then I found a flyer about his mid-semester show taped to my mailbox, so I went. It was good, I guess. I liked it. Lots of abstract, figurative work. He wasn't there when I stopped by. _

_And then there was last week. The sun was out in the courtyard for maybe the first time since October, and it was so bright I spent the whole break wishing I had my sunglasses, wishing that I even knew where I'd stashed them away. Edward had his. I went inside to pick up a special order from the art library, and when I came back to collect my things, I saw some paper sticking out from between the pages of my journal. It was a simple line drawing of me with my hand shielding my face. It looked like I was hiding, the way he drew it. I recognized my posture and the turn of my wrist._

_The next day, I was meeting with my study group in the International House and walked into the bathrooms to find this blond physics major named Heidi giving Edward a haircut. He had a towel draped over his shoulders. Her hands were in his hair, actually, and she was rubbing his neck. Clippings of his hair were sprinkled all over the towel and the floor. I turned on my heel and walked out. Rosalie told me Caius told her Heidi and Edward are hanging out now, which I think means they're sleeping together._

_At least one thing is working out fine: classes. I have a chance to study abroad next year—Paris—and I think I should go. There's a grant to cover my travel and everything. It won't be until the Spring, because I need to take Research Methods first. This prof has ideas about me doing a project on the urban park systems, and he thinks it might be good preparation for grad school. Do I want that? I don't know. I didn't used to, as you know. I figure I'll work it as long as it's working. I wouldn't mind getting far away from here, that's for sure._

_Do you remember how we used to plan out our lives in such painstaking detail, Alice? I can't bear to think about any of those plans now. None of it means anything without you here. I always knew we'd support each other no matter what…no matter how our dreams changed. I always knew if I made you proud, I'd be doing something right. I just never bargained for not having the chance. _

_Has it really been a year—only a year? I miss you every day. I'm sorry my life isn't anything like what I promised you. Enough happiness for both of us. I remember, and I'm trying, Alice. I really am. I owe you that much. It's just…difficult._

_Love always, _

_Bella_

_~.~_

**AN:** Thank you for reading! Hello and hooray to happymelt, faireyfan, and midsouthmama for beta-ing and pre-reading, and to someone I'll call midsouthpapa for the awesome banner he made. I'm curious to see if people have strong opinions about criteria lists or what have you! 'Til next time._  
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	3. Chapter 3: The Everyday

**Chapter 3: The Everyday**

Ed makes me take him through the Taco Bell drive-through in between picking up gallons of paint for the spare room and dropping off unwanted stuff at Goodwill. I give in and add a pasty bean and cheese burrito to his order, shrugging. I crave the chalky blandness sometimes. I pull the truck off the road so we can eat in the shade.

These are the sort of commonplace errands that make me feel a secret thrill, like I'm a real adult at last. Eddie's tough-love advice rings in my ears: _You need to let him in_. So instead of pondering silently, I open up to Ed. I ask if he thinks I'm doing an okay job, trying to emulate responsible grown-ups without ever having had a proper model.

"Yes. You kill it, if you ask me." He wipes medium-hot sauce from my mouth. "Honestly, it's all any of us can do, right? Very few people still have great parental role models, I think."

Right. His own parents, who _were_ great, are gone. His dad died of a heart attack when Ed was twelve, and his mom battled cancer for years, living just long enough to see him finish out his first year of teaching. It was still somewhat fresh when I met him, and I remember thinking _Oh, so this is what we'll bond over_. Only he made it more sweet than bitter, trading his stories of his mom for my stories of Alice. I still feel amazed at how hopeful and big-hearted he manages to be after losing so much.

He confesses he likes that I use checks to pay bills instead of going online—because that was how he always watched his mom do it.

"You scribbling away with your head bent down, the way your hair bunches up when it hits the desk…Freud would have a field day." He laughs. "It's just like hers."

These little flashes of his mother's absence pepper our life. Every time, I feel a twinge of guilt about the way I take Renee for granted, as much as she aggravates me. With anyone else I might feel manipulated, but it can't be artful on Ed's part; his heart doesn't work that way. At any rate, the effect is I'm kinder to my mom these days. Ed seems to be happy that I'm trying with her, even as he acknowledges that things will never be rosy.

"Nothing you do is anything like either one of my parents. Speaking of Freud." Ed is as different from them as a person could get, I think. Renee is irritatingly flighty, whereas Charlie, my dad, is deeply irresponsible. The two of them together were a disaster. Not like Ed's parents. "I wish I had the parents you had. The childhood you had."

"Well, your childhood made you who you are. Maybe it came from necessity, but I've never met anybody more driven." He slides closer to me on the bench seat, taking my face in his hands. "Or more organized."

He kisses me, and I can't help laughing.

He smiles against my lips, skirting his hands under the hem of my shirt, tickling. "I mean, you're just so sexy when you're organized. I've seen you make some lists that would make what's-her-name blush. Martha Stewart. Don't even get me started on your Excel spreadsheets. Maybe tonight you can organize yourself all over my—"

"Ed, stop it." I'm giggling uncontrollably by now. "Goodwill closes soon; we need to go."

"Okay, that's a little too organized. Shutting me down to fit a schedule invalidates my whole premise a little, don't you think?" His lips are on my neck.

I shift back in my seat, putting on my stern face. "Being organized means more time for doing whatever we want. I mean…you don't really want to unload and reload all over again next weekend, do you?" Six months after moving in together, we've finally sorted out everything we have duplicates of, and Saturdays are the only days we're both free to do the thrift store drop-off. "Unless you want to do it alone when you're on break next week."

He sighs. "Let's get it done. By all means. But believe me, responsible doesn't have to mean boring. You don't know that yet. But it's true. You'll see."

And so, driven to disprove our own square-ness, we one-up each other, suggesting ways to spend our evening, until we're creeping onto the beach at La Push to camp out illegally. Technically, we're supposed to ask Old Quil for permission—which he always gives. But we tell ourselves we're throwing caution to the wind.

We've got a plastic bag of snacks from the gas station and a fifth of bourbon. I pull my sleeping bag and tent from where I keep them crushed behind the bench seat in the truck. This isn't the first time I've camped on the beach. The air is cool and still, and the ocean is noisy.

We anchor the tent on the sand using heavy stones, then leave our jeans and sweaters behind and hit the water's edge in our underwear. It somehow feels more exciting than being naked. It's too cold. We wade in and palm each other with wet hands.

My nipples are dark through my wet bra, and he puts his mouth on them, warming me through the fabric. He lifts me onto a slanted rock that juts out from the water, where it's still too cold but maybe less so. He moves my hands onto two mossy ridges in the rock and says _Hold on_ and goes down on me, scraping my inner thigh with the weekend scruff on his jaw, proving he knows me, making me tremble and burst. Everything is briny and moonlit, and he keeps my underwear bunched up in his fist until I want them again.

Later, in the tent, he takes his time. He pulls me onto him from above. We're both good and warm, and my hair gets plastered to his neck, wet with seawater and sweat, catching and trapping me. I wince, because pulling all my hair at once feels good but pulling one or two at a time hurts like crazy. The gentle way he untangles us makes my heart crack a little, because I never once feel it in my scalp, and his forearm trembles with restraint. As soon as I'm free, I sit up and he lets loose, the pulsing vein in his neck racing faster.

He comes before I do, and just the raw bliss on his face is enough to hold me over until I feel his hands on me—one where I'm sensitive at the base of my spine, trailing upward, the other in front, lower. Even though he knows what this will do, he grunts in surprise when my back arches so deeply my damp hair grazes his thighs behind me. He sits up and pants into my breastbone, saying _so beautiful_ and _thank you, yoga,_ and I laugh.

~.~

On Sunday we make our way to a little coffee shop in Port Angeles for breakfast before heading home. We're buckling up in the truck, bellies full and warm, when I turn to see a trio of motorcycles pull into the lot. They send a crazy scattering of chrome-reflected sunlight through the truck windows. I see a frayed cable and roll down my window to tell the bike's rider where to find parts on a Sunday.

Ed's smile fades. I'm reminded—and I think he is—of the year I spent with Edward Three, who was a Harley rider and a mechanic when he wasn't practicing intellectual property law. Ed's never been comfortable with what I've told him about those days. Edward Three had some reckless habits.

It was just after college, my first real long-term relationship, and a huge learning experience. Freud—or Emmett, for that matter, being a therapist—might suggest Edward Three was a financially secure variation of my parents...and that dating him was an attempt to understand that risk-taking impulse.

Ed looks at me, his words trapped inside his mouth. The rumbling of the bikes fades into the distance. He leans against the passenger side door, his arms crossed.

"Do you think…do you ever miss that? That life?"

"No." I shake my head. _God, no._ "No, I mean, it was exciting when I was 22. But that didn't even feel like my real life at the time, you know? It was always just an experiment. Something to get out of my system."

He frowns and rakes a hand through his hair before going on. "I guess that's what I mean…is it out of your system?"

I'm silent for a moment, processing this. His body language is tense, but he softens when he meets my eye. "It's not like that. I don't think about it that way. It's not like I fantasize about some wild life or something." I may shy away from commitment, but that's not why.

"Because last night, for instance…that was fun. But I don't _need _it. I feel like the ordinary stuff is enough for me. The white picket fence. A little dog and a couple of crazy kids running around. Barbeques. I know it's predictable, but…so be it." He shrugs.

"If that was my dream too, I would tell you. But just because it's not what I dream of doesn't mean I won't be happy doing it. I love you so much...and I want you to have it."

The way he looks at me breaks my heart, because I know he sees right through my bravado. _Wanting won't make it so_ is what Eddie always tells me.

"And then you talk to me about how much I'm not your parents…well, I don't know whether the life we have together is your reality…or your escape."

I hear myself suck in a breath. "Ed…you didn't just—you think I'd go back to that?" I press my temples, biting the tongue that wants to lash out at him in anger. I see his face set in a way that tells me he's about to push me further.

"I wish I knew what you wanted. Tell me, is this life really so bad, comparatively?"

I blink at him. "Compared to what? Compared to emptying the cabinets, selling my bicycle, and disappearing to the casinos for nine days? Why don't you do that to me any time you want to remind me how good I have it? Or—better yet—let me drive a car that has a bad axle and—"

"Stop it!" He stills my wrist, which is waving around in wide arcs in the air. His face is pink. "Not fair. Jesus. That isn't what I'm saying, and you know it."

I'm embarrassed that I tried to whip out that particular trump card, but I'm still mad, so I just stare out the window.

"I'm only trying to tell you this life we're building is my reality, Bella. I'm not playing house with you. And I'm not going to change. The person you know is who I am—for better or for worse. I can't imagine what more you need to know."

It's not quite an ultimatum, but I can hear the weariness in his voice. I reach for his hand on the bench seat between us. "But you are going to change. That's just it. I'll change, too. Our lives will change, again and again. That's what more I need to know—how we'll do that."

His Adam's apple bobs in his throat, and he places my hand on his knee, covering it with his own. He frowns, grappling with new awareness. "My mom's life changed a lot when my dad died. She changed. But she managed to make sure I always felt safe and loved no matter what. And you didn't always have that, did you?"

"No." He already knows this. My parents failed me in the worst way when Alice died, concerning themselves with legal claims and angling for control over money, of all things.

He clenches my hand to his leg, warm and strong. This discussion isn't over; I know it. _This_—his patience, his willingness to understand me—is what I need. What I fear living without.

~.~

I walk in to work on Monday knowing the hardest part of my week will be tonight's board meeting. I have an off-site lunch with the board chair to prepare for it; I hope she'll support the wilderness immersion program expansion plans, and she'll feel more comfortable doing so if I brief her beforehand.

While I wait for Siobhan at the Cozy Corner Café, I think about Portland and Edward Three. That time in my life stands out in my memory in stark contrast to the weekend I've just had with Ed. I decide our life is exactly as wild—and as tame—as I would ever want.

Number Three and I met when he limped up to my desk at the Portland Arboretum Visitor Center, bleeding profusely from his elbow. He raised an eyebrow at me when I clamped my hand down on his wound and yanked the flannel from around his waist to use as a compress.

He watched me bandage his arm and said,_ "Well, you seem to know your way around a flesh wound, don't you?"_ He replaced his wrecked motorcycle with a brand new motorcycle the next day and came to show me his stitches.

He asked me to dinner then, and I saw a look in his eye—a look that said he didn't care what anybody thought. I'd seen that look once before in my life, so I said yes to him, but I came to find out there are all different degrees of not caring. All kinds of reasons for not caring. He was impulsive and passionate and generally good-natured, but without any sort of values grounding him. His money, the bike, the ways he indulged, the sex we had—it was all different and thrilling. And exhausting.

After we finally had our last fight about his drinking and disregard for his own safety, I lumped him in with Edward One in the ranks of Unsuitable Men, but even then I knew that wasn't quite right. Edward One scared me because he was so strident about what he wanted; Edward Three, because he wanted nothing in particular.

And now there's Edward Six. Ed wants simple things. Nothing that I don't want. I feel like a jerk for dithering like this, but it's not the same as saying we want the same things.

Siobhan and I discuss the pros and cons of expanding Wild Clallam's signature program. She says it's the right kind of risk to take, meaning it's core to our mission and has immediate benefits.

I show her my projections. "Sixty participants per season, double that every summer…so, 600 people total doing the overnight immersions if we commit to two years."

"That's one percent of the County's population in those two years leading up to our next voter referendum. And the word-of-mouth from those people will mean everything if they've seen first-hand how beautiful this place is."

When she puts it that way…I guess there's something to this idea of managed risk. The meeting goes smoothly. I present my projections and my proposal, the board approves the expansion, and I go home to tell Ed the good news over takeout and milkshakes on the porch. Fumes from the half-painted spare room waft out of the open windows, and he and I talk quietly about the rest of his spring break projects and the trip we might take to Olympia later this month to cheer Eddie and Emmett in the marathon.

~.~

When I delve into work early on Tuesday morning, there's one more message from last week's not-so-mysterious Edward—in my email, this time. This is on top of another two phone messages he left with Lauren yesterday.

The "from" address clears up any pretense of mystery. It's him, all right.

The "subject" line, however, clarifies nothing: _Heads up_.

I click it open.

_Bella—_

_I know this must come as a surprise. I was hoping to reach you to catch you up on some recent and not-so-recent events (in between actually dealing with the recent events). I apologize if we don't connect before you open some mail that is probably coming to you. Sorry to be so cryptic, but it's best if we talk. I'll keep trying you. In the meantime, if you would be so kind: 206-555-5555._

_-Edward_

When I read the words, it occurs to me that I've never received an email from him before, not even when we were together. Nonetheless, I find myself recognizing his voice in here—and pinpointing his mood. This is careful language coming from him, and as direct as I've ever heard him be—enough so that I know I need to call. What can he need to tell me? I'm tapping my fingers on my phone, working up the courage to begin. It's a Seattle area code. I'm trying to recall his voice…or trying to prepare myself for the possibility that his actual voice doesn't match what I remember.

I absently click open the next email, which is Lauren's daily summary of donation revenues. The first line I see there makes my skin pebble in to goose bumps.

_Single-day receipts, Monday 4/5: $2,250._

This is about $2,000 above what qualifies as a good day.

The combination of his message and hers unsettles me. And then I know for certain that they are, indeed, connected, because I open the red folder on the corner of my desk Lauren reserves for critical correspondence. Inside are eight separate donation checks made out to Wild Clallam, all with essentially the same memo line.

_In loving tribute to Jasper Whitlock._

I release the handset to my desk phone and fly out the door, gripping my cell phone. I don't stop until I reach the quiet area in the shade of a giant redwood in the park across the street. I look down and watch my fingers move across the phone's touch screen, pulling up the email with his number and clicking through. I remind myself, numbly, that _loving tribute_ is not _in memory of_. None of those donations were _in memory of_. I close my eyes.

While the line on the other end rings and rings, I remember.

~.~

_September, 1999_

_Dear Alice, _

_Last weekend was Family Weekend here on campus. I told Renee to never mind; I would have said so even if she were in good shape. It seems like such a quaint, antiquated custom. A throwback to the days before constant email communication. But a surprising number of families did come. _

_Edward's family was here, Alice. His parents and the half-brother I'd heard so much about. Jasper. Edward and his mom walked through the diner while I was there. I shrank down and hid behind the booth divider, idiotically. (Thinking: What if he introduced her to me? What if he didn't?) She's older than I expected but lively and sharp. She looked way more energetic than a lot of the younger moms who were around. His dad surprised me, too. He was tanned and weathered, with such a kind face. I remember Edward telling me how his dad loves to kayak in the San Juan Islands where they live. I felt like a stalker the way I was sneaking glimpses here and there. _

_Jasper, though…I knew from Edward's stories he's had some troubles, but he looks like the walking dead, Alice. Beg your pardon but, well, it's just an expression. Deep purple circles under his eyes and skin like grey tissue paper. I got to see it all up close and personal because—get this—I was on tap to lead a special excursion of the Wilderness Club, and just as I was getting a final head count at the break of dawn, who comes walking up but Edward and this brother of his. _

_Edward was all 'so, rumor has it you're the trip leader.' And I was trying to wrap my head around the idea of being in close quarters with the two of them for fourteen hours, so I got this capable-seeming girl named Angela to take over packing the van, and I pulled Edward aside. THEN he told me he wasn't even going on the excursion, but that if I had room, Jasper wanted to 'peace out' for a while. He said 'peace out' with finger-quotes, by the way—Edward doesn't talk that way. I don't think he was making fun of his brother, though. He worships Jasper. He once told me Jasper was the smartest person he'd ever known, and the stupidest, because of the drugs. _

_Well, the longer story was that Jasper was clean—is clean—going on ten months, and so many people on campus were getting high all weekend he just wanted to get away. Okay. I said okay. I promised Edward mine was the drug-free excursion. The drugs-positive group wasn't leaving until eight, which meant more like ten. _

_So, get ready for another surprise: the day was amazing. As soon as we reached the tree canopy, Jasper seemed to come to life. He was so shy, and I could see he had these little tics he tried to hide, so I just stuck close to him and tried to distract him with my abundant (mostly made-up) knowledge about the rainforest. You remember how it smells so good in the forest? _

_He was a slow walker, and he didn't seem so strong, so Angela went ahead with the others, and I hung back. He told me they had redwood forests on the island growing up but nothing like the Quinault, where we were. I told him Edward had told me about their fort in the woods they could only reach by canoe, and he seemed happy to hear it. He said he knew about me, too. I think he could tell that wasn't a good subject, so he just turned back to enjoying the forest. Everything was such a revelation to him—the little frogs and lizards and banana slugs, and the fiddlehead ferns we cooked in a pan for lunch, and the moss and mushrooms everywhere. _

_It made me feel happier than I have in a long time, seeing it through his eyes like that. _

_I told him about you, Alice. We reached that spot on Blue Mountain where you can see the Dungeness Spit below and the San Juans across the water, and it just came out…it surprised me, really. I can hardly speak to anyone about you. It's different when I'm up here, where I watched the wind carry your ashes, I guess. He just listened. I asked him if he could see the island where he grew up, and he said it was too hazy. _

_When we dropped him off at Edward's apartment at the end of the day, he said something that made Edward smile. Edward came out on the porch and sort of waved at me. I don't know. I'm not even thinking about it. All I can think about is the forest right now, and how much Jasper's smile was like your smile, and how tired I am from walking and fresh air. _

_Sleeping now, my dear. Maybe you'll be in my dream. _

_Love, Bella._

The phone rings and rings. On the other end will be Edward—and his news about _recent events_. I take a deep breath and try to plan out how to handle this.

~.~

**AN:** This story will ultimately be about 10 chapters in length. Thanks to all of you who have been reading, alerting, favoriting, and reviewing so far, it's truly overwhelming! Always an Edward was mentioned at Fellowsheep of the Peen (wordybitches dot com) which deserves a visit just for the amazing graphics. Some of you are posting questions in your reviews that I take to be rhetorical musing...if you really do want me to answer, make sure I know that and I'll do what I can to clarify without spoiling. Thanks to **faireyfan, midsouthmama**, and** happymelt** for being awesome. I try not to tinker after they've seen the draft but sometimes I can't help myself.


	4. Chapter 4: The Unexpected

**Chapter 4: The Unexpected**

The phone rings and rings. On the other end will be Edward—and his news about _recent events_. I take a deep breath and try to plan out how to handle this.

I begin by revisiting what I know.

So. Here's what I know: Jasper is his best friend and his half-brother, five years older. There are fragments Edward shared with me here and there, events that string together into a story—his accidental success as a 19-year-old musician, then the burden of having more money than sense, more freedom than experience in his early twenties—but the only thing that matters to me now is that Edward might have lost him.

Drugs had been an issue. _Is that what this is about_, I wonder? Jasper had been in and out of rehab a couple of times. I knew he was using again around the time I lost track of both him and Edward.

But before that happened, before I lost track, I knew Jasper as a shy, curious young man who loved the forest like I did. He was clean during those months I knew him. After that first trek in September, he took to hiking and camping in the wilderness, seeking me out on my college group hikes from time to time. Sometimes he would tag along with us, but just as often he was content to explore alone. I told him about the places up near Forks that I thought he'd like, and even joined him once for snowshoeing at altitude before I took off for my semester abroad.

The subject of Edward was an unspoken no-man's land between us; nonetheless, Jasper's gestures and offhand comments were like an inside-out echo in my mind, calling up every story Edward had ever told me about him, making sense of the fondness I'd always heard in Edward's voice. And he was like a human Rosetta stone, showing me that Edward's understated _kind, smart, great_ really meant _unbelievably gentle, brilliant, can't imagine life without him_. I came to love Jasper for that. He'd given me fodder for trusting that Edward's words whispered in the dark had bigness and depth behind them, even if he did one day stop feeling those things.

And now I'm hearing Edward's recorded voice ringing in my ears, sounding just like I remember, telling me _Please_ _leave a message_, and what can I possibly say? I dig my fingers into the grass next to my knees as if to anchor myself.

"Edward, it's Bella. Bella Swan. I just saw. I hope you're all right. I hope Jasper is, too. Just…call me. Any time. This is my cell."And then I disconnect.

I flop back to lie on the grass and close my eyes, taking more deep breaths. People occasionally send _loving tribute_ gifts on behalf of grandparents when they retire or have a major birthday. Sometimes it marks a twelve-step recovery program milestone. In Jasper's case, it could be this last one. But when it isn't one of those things, and when an email mentions "recent events," the phrase _loving tribute_ is not good news. It means grief.

It makes me a little bit sick to realize a part of me is actually relieved that this is the explanation for the calls. That this isn't about reminiscing, not some nostalgic impulse on Edward's part. No obscure half-said things for me to endlessly interpret. This is only about Jasper. Jasper and these donations to benefit the wilderness he must have never stopped loving.

"I know you're not meditating with a cell phone in your hand."

My eyes fly open. Eduardo is standing above me, peering down. He's shirtless, and his bare feet rustle the grass next to my ear. It's unseasonably warm for April, but he'd be dressed this way regardless; this is essentially his daily uniform, Spring through Fall.

I crack a smile. "No. Even I haven't sunk that low." I sit up and hug my knees to my chest as Eduardo squats down next to me. I watch to see if he folds himself into a perfect lotus, but he just sits in a normal cross-legged position.

"Shush. You're not low. So you're a yoga truant. It happens to the best of us." He squints at me in the mid-morning sunlight through long hair that flops in his eyes. "You don't look so good."

"I just got what I think is bad news about an old friend." I rub my hands across my face in case I've been crying. "Two old friends at once, really."

He nods. "Will it help to talk about it?"

"No. I mean, it would, but first I need to _know_ about it. I don't know the details." I spin my phone around in my palm and check that the ringer is on.

"You just think it's bad, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You've always had good intuition."

"Have I?"

"You would know. What do you think?"

"I'm afraid you're right." I peer at him, shielding my eyes from the sun. "Hey, was that a trick? Do they teach that in yoga school?"

"Well, they need _something _to teach us; anatomy, chanting, and Sanskrit only fill up the first three days."

I shove him in slow motion until he topples over, laughing.

"Yoga clown."

He does an effortless sit-up and tents his knees, draping his arms over his legs.

"Seriously, though…it's my obligation as a certified yoga teacher to tell you some of the ancient bearded dudes believed intuition is controlled by your solar plexus chakra."

"My what?"

"Your solar plexus chakra." He points to an area midway between his belly button and his breastbone. "It's stimulated by meditation and deep backbends. Like the ones you were doing a lot of before you went AWOL from my class."

"Is that true? I mean, do you believe it?"

"Eh, I don't know. It's what some people say. Could also be that run-of-the-mill stress reduction and blood flow clear the clouds out of your self-awareness."

I think back to the all-too-clear feelings that came up during meditation those last couple of times. I could use more, not fewer, clouds in my self-awareness.

"Huh. Well, listen…I'm coming back eventually. I just need a break."

"It's all good. Whatever it takes, friend. Hey, if you need cheering up later, we'll go eat fried food and throw darts. Bring Ed. Eddie. Emmett."

"Really? You'll be seen in public eating fried food?"

He hops to his feet. "I would have thought me throwing a sharp weapon would get a bigger reaction."

"We'll give you the plastic tipped ones."

"Deal." He gives me a salute as he walks on toward Main Street, muscles efficient and rippling under his skin. I hope he doesn't plan on being allowed into any shops or stores without shoes or a shirt.

~.~

When I dust myself off and head back into the office, I find Eddie sitting on a file cabinet between Angela's desk and Lauren's, kicking his legs back and forth. He holds his phone up to me. "Look! I'm the Mayor of Forks…_Forks Donut_, that is—on foursquare." He never seems to tire of this joke. I love how easily amused he is. Angela rolls her eyes.

"What's up?"

"Temperature's up is what. I'm in the mood for a mocha swirl coolio frap or whatever. Want to walk down to the corner with me?"

"I don't know, I'm—" Just at that moment, my phone beeps with a text message. "Waiting for a call back."

He cocks an eyebrow at me, inferring that if I'm using my cell phone, it's personal. Lauren tries to get my attention as I pass her desk, but I can't focus on work right now. I shake her off and drag Eddie into my office. I close the door, explaining about Jasper, and about the checks in tribute to Jasper, while I inspect my phone.

The message—from Edward One—is concise. _Can't call now. I can G-chat if you can? _

Every impulse to dodge him is long gone. I reply with my info, sit at my desk, and log on without stopping to think. Eddie settles into the visitor's chair at the opposite side of the desk and watches me, his eyes sharp. _Is that him?_ He mouths the words.

I frown. "It's G-chat, Eddie. He can't hear you. Or me. Anyhow, this should just take a minute."

Eddie nods and occupies himself with his phone.

I barely have time to do a gut check when I see Edward's username and a green dot appear on my screen. I've never mastered chatting; the rhythm is always off, and it feels awkward. But this will be done with soon enough. I'm sure of it.

_**206Edward: **_Bella?

_**Clallam_Swan: **_I'm here. Hello.

_**206Edward: **_How are you? Sorry I can't talk by phone. Hospital has email kiosks, but cells aren't allowed.

A hospital. This is good, I think. Relief sweeps over me, and I forget to type. The feeling is short-lived.

_**206Edward: **_It's Jasper. I guess you know by now**.**

_**Clallam_Swan: **_Hospital?

_**206Edward:**_I feel bad telling you like this. He's had a stroke. An aneurysm in his brain started bleeding.

Well, that's _not_ good. I type _Shit_ only to delete it before hitting enter.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_How is he?

_**206Edward:**_He's hanging on, B. But in very bad shape.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_I'm so sorry. Was it—I mean, did he

_**206Edward:**_No, no drugs for 8 yrs+. Could be residual damage to blood vessels from those days…no way to know. Surgeons repaired the vessel last week and have kept him in an induced coma since then.

I want to be sick to my stomach. My cursor blinks.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_Oh, dear.

_**206Edward:**_Doctors are "optimistic" but also "cautious" plus caveats. He could survive and still lose so much. I'm so worried for him. For all of us.

Even all these years later, I can't help thinking: _this isn't like him_. He was never so direct and forthcoming. Then again, this is _just_ like him. Going from years of silence straight to the heart of the matter. He doesn't have a halfway mode. It also occurs to me that I'm not "Bella" to him right now, but simply a sympathetic ear. I can handle that.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_You're doing everything you can, I'm sure of it.

_**206Edward:**_Trying, is why our mother got the idea of the tribute gifts. Some sort of karmic rite. We saw some Wild Clallum paperwork in his apartment.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_Well, we can make use of every dime. Tell him for me.

_**206Edward:**_He can't hear or understand, we don't think. But I'll tell him.

_**206Edward:**_He's been giving anonymously for years, apparently. Through his accountant.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_I wondered who that was.

_**206Edward:**_It doesn't surprise me, you know. I've been thinking about how happy he was in the woods.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_I remember.

_**206Edward: **_I'm glad there's someone who knew him then and only then. You never saw him in bad shape, B. Not once.

That's not exactly true, but Edward doesn't know that, and now isn't the time to bring it up.

_**206Edward:**_Of all the ways I imagined us

He never finishes that thought, because my next line cuts him off.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_Can I email you a stewardship report?

_**Clallam_Swan: **_You know, describing the impact of donations? Because the work we're doing is what he'd want, I think.

_**206Edward:**_I'm sure it is. I'd love to see it.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_I'll send it, then.

_**206Edward:**_ Doc's briefing us in 5 min.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_Okay. Your family is there with you?

_**206Edward:**_They are.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_Good. Take care.

_**206Edward:**_OK. Thank you.

_**Clallam_Swan: **_Call me if you need to talk.

His green dot goes gray before I'm sure he saw my last note. I lift my eyes from the screen and look at Eddie, who is still here. Peering at me. I feel cold sweat and realize my face must be flushed.

"Everything okay? I feel like I just watched a soap opera on fast-forward play out in your facial expressions."

"He's alive. Jasper, that is." I puff air out of my lungs. "Sounds like it's very touch-and-go. He had a stroke."

"Well, shit."

My desk clock reads 10:30 a.m. How has so much changed since I first sat down here this morning? I'm trying not to conceive of what this all means for Jasper. And I'm trying to reconcile this straight-talking, heart-on-sleeve Edward with the man I knew in college.

Emmett has said before that when people are in crisis mode, they often let go of their standard defenses. Control freaks become very loose. Laid-back people take over anything to do with structure and order. Maybe that's what this is.

I hear a light tap at the door, and it creaks open. Ed's face appears in the gap.

"Hey—oh, hey." He swings the door open wide when he sees Eddie in the visitor's chair. Eddie stands up. "Lauren called me. She said you rushed out of here like you saw a ghost. She was a little worried."

I turn my face up to him as he bends down to kiss me. I mull over where to begin in telling him what I've just told Eddie, plus the new information about the aneurysm. This involves explaining who Jasper is, and who Jasper's brother is. Or was. To me.

While the wheels turn in my head, Ed looks from me to Eddie and back again. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"It's not—no. Eddie just stopped by to recruit me for a coffee slushy break."

Eddie is making his exit, signaling that he really is getting parched and thirsty, when the door flies open, yielding to Emmett's hulking presence.

"Bella, doll. Oh, hi sweetheart." He pecks Eddie on the cheek but turns his attention back to me. He's in therapist mode. "I thought you might need to talk…everything okay?"

Ed raises his eyebrows, and I know he's wondering just how many people I've reached out to before him. I shake my head at him.

"Yes, Em, I'm fine. Who—how?"

"I ran into Eduardo in Pete's. He says you got some bad news this morning?"

I reach out to clench Ed's hand in mine, calming him.

"Well, it's not even that big of a deal. Probably. Or…it could be a very serious deal, depending on how you look at it. I just learned the full story five minutes ago."

What I wouldn't give to be among the mossy old growth trees in the rainforest right now. But I'm not there; I'm here. I take a deep breath and tell Ed about the email from an old friend—_someone I dated in college_, I say—and the tribute donations, then the news about Jasper's condition.

"What can I do?" His eyes linger where my fingers press the back of my neck. This is my tell. My distress signal. I can see Ed evaluating, deciding whether this is something he can fix—or something he wants to wish out of existence.

"It's hard to say. You don't know him. _I _barely know him."

"But he knows Wild Clallam?"

"Yeah. Actually, it sounds like Jasper is the anonymous donor we've been getting checks from since the start. To be honest, he influenced me in a certain way when I was in college, and it was sort of because of him that I founded Wild Clallam."

"And now he's fighting for his life," Emmett interjects. "Do you think you might want to go to Seattle? Sounds like this Jasper is someone important. I don't care how long it's been." He exchanges looks with Ed, and so do I.

I shake my head. "I haven't heard from either of them in years. Eh… Jasper's brother…he was trying to tell me; he's called a few times over the past week. To tell me."

"Wait, he's been calling for a week? Why didn't you mention this was on your mind?" He looks to Eddie, and Eddie makes the universal sign for _don't look at me_. "I mean…no wonder you've been so...You can't keep this stuff bottled up."

"Well, I didn't know this was what it was about—I didn't think it was important. I thought he was just…calling. "

In the silence that follows, I understand that he and I are coming to the same cold realization: the fact that I didn't mention it is what makes it significant. Deeming something not _important _has never stopped me before.

"Wow. That's actually worse." He holds his breath to keep from sighing, pressing his eyebrows with his fingertips. I can see the part of him that is pissed warring with the part of him that sees I'm upset, the part that wants to fix things for me.

Ed turns to ask Emmett and Eddie to give us a minute, but they're already slinking out the door.

He walks around me to open the blinds at the tall window facing the park, sending sunlight pouring in. He knows I like to see the evergreens on sunny days. He leans against my desk, long legs stretched alongside my chair. For being just a foot away from me, he feels very distant.

"This man's brother who called. You dated him in college?" He's turned to face the window, so I can only see his profile.

"For all of ten weeks. It was..." I stop myself from saying _it was nothing_. "It was a long time ago."

"What does he want from you?"

"Maybe nothing. If he tries to get in touch again, it's because he wants to be reminded about Jasper's better days. Or to vent to someone who isn't so close to the situation."

He finally turns his head back and meets my eye. His voice is quiet and calm. "And you want to be that person?"

"I won't if you don't think it's appropriate."

He searches my face for a moment before answering.

"No. That's not my place. I know you, Bell. If you can comfort him, you will."

He brushes the hair back from my face and kisses my forehead before standing up, leaving me to my work.

It never comes to that, though. Edward doesn't reach out to me again. I email him the stewardship report, just like I would with any of Wild Clallam's major supporters. Lauren brings me a new batch of donations from today's mail; there are more today than yesterday. I spend the afternoon writing thank-you notes, which I have messengered to the board chair so she can add her signature to mine.

I check Eduardo's yoga class schedule online and drop in after work, feeling the familiar tug and strain of muscles stretching and flexing across tendons under my skin. This is a reliable way to get out of my head, my endless questioning. To train my concentration on lifting, pushing, balancing, breathing, twisting, tightening here, letting go there. Drops of sweat splash onto my yoga mat. A stockpile of tension leaves my body, replaced by the buzz of endorphins.

I bow out just before the final meditation begins, pointing to my wrist as if I have an urgent appointment to get to. Eduardo nods. My walk home is quiet, and I'm both energized and calm, thinking.

~.~

_February, 2011_

_Dear Alice, _

_He was in my dream again last night. You know who. It only happens every few years now, but it's still the same: I wake up clutching the sheets and trying to gather the dream back into me. Satisfied. Drunk on happiness. In the dreams, he doesn't do anything special. Once he slipped a thick sweater over my head as I was about to blast off in a spaceship, telling me to stay warm. Often, all he does is look me in the eye and give me the faintest smile. I hear his voice, and it grounds me. I feel the softness of his hair under my fingers, and I see his face go easy as he lets me see how he likes it. Every time, the feeling stays with me for days._

_It started happening at yoga, too, in meditation. His face—his quiet, expressive eyes and barely-there smile—that's what I see when I let my consciousness go and drift to the calmest, most peaceful place my heart knows. _

_I'm taking a break from yoga. I don't know._

_Eduardo believes your body tells you how you feel about something before your conscious mind knows it. He said this when I started crying in rest pose last week for no reason. Eduardo also says crying doesn't always mean sadness. Sometimes it just comes along with the release of something that was trapped._

_Maybe all it means is I want that feeling again. Maybe I'm close to it. It could be that "Edward" is just a symbol in my own personal dream dictionary, a talisman that stands for a particular feeling of being seen and known, challenged and safe, pushed and trusted all at once. _

_Life. I'm so glad you're here in my memory to help me sort it out, Alice. There's only one other person who recurs in my dreams, by the way, and it's you. You cling to me like a tiny monkey, lightweight and cheerful—but you mean business, too. I wonder what the two of you would do if you ever joined forces._

_I'd better go. I need to get my mind off all this. I suppose I might as well get started on those quarterly revenue reports for next month._

_XO – B_

~.~

When I arrive home, I hear voices in the living room. Emmett and Eddie are on the sofa, sipping their iced cappuccino drinks. Finally. Or again. Their faces turn to me, and I stop in my tracks. Ed is in the easy chair with a packed bag at his feet.

"Lauren called."

I glance at my cell phone and see a missed call from the office. "Oh. I was on silent."

"Mr. Whitlock's accountant requested a meeting about his estate. In Seattle."

Time seems to slow down. My brain wants to fixate on the strangeness of Ed saying _Mr. Whitlock_. I sit down heavily on the arm of the sofa. And then, just as suddenly, time speeds up. I lift my head, pressing my fingers to my lips and speaking at the same time.

"Has he…Is he…"

"Purely advisory. Nothing new has happened, Lauren says. But they want to meet with you and the board chair. Siobhan is in the city already, and she'll meet you there."

"Who—who wants to meet?"

"Jenks, his name is. The finance man. Just him and an attorney who specializes in wills."

"No family?" Ed shakes his head, looking at the floor near my feet.

"Bella, we're going tonight. We'll stay with Teddy, where you're both welcome. Or you can snag a hotel." Emmett stands up. "Ed threw some things together for you. And Tim Gunn here gave his okay. If we leave now, we can make the 10:00 p.m. ferry from Bainbridge."

I nod my head, taking the garment bag and small roly someone hands to me, arranging it in Emmett's trunk. Ed is masking something, and I don't understand what it is until he's closing the car door on me.

He's not coming with us.

I lean toward him, questioning.

"Go see him in the hospital, Bella. You don't think it's necessary now, but you'll regret it if something happens, and you never said goodbye."

I reach for his face with both hands through the rolled-down window. "But why not come?"

He kisses me even as he grasps my wrists and takes my hands away. "This isn't something I can help you with. You need to do this on your own. I can see that."

Something in his manner tells me he's talking about more than just Jasper. "You know I love you? And you trust me?"

"I do. And I trust you." He means it, judging by his voice.

He ruffles my hair—a gesture I'm not used to from him—and then stands and backs away from the car. I twist in my seat and watch him shrink to a pinpoint as we drive away.

~.~

**AN:** Thank you for reading! Despite somewhat angsty turns, I'm having a lot of fun with this story! You guys make it fun with your theories and reactions, as do **happymelt, faireyfan, **and** midsouthmama** (who beta and preread, respectively). Midsouthpapa made the awesome banner linked on my profile page. Oh, also, I'm on twitter as TreesinSnow, mostly tweeting boring and infrequent things.


	5. Chapter 5: Changes

**Chapter 5: Changes**

I watch Teddy tap his knuckles on the surface of a nine-grain loaf before carving into it with a serrated knife. He passes out the thick, aromatic slices, not bothering with plates. Fresh bread. It's still warm. The scent and the heat of it make me forget the weariness of the long drive, at least for a moment. We're on the roof of his building in the open air, the still waters of the bay a dark gap between us and the lights of Queen Anne beyond.

Teddy should be asleep. We all should be, but Teddy especially. In four hours he'll be awake again—or still awake—beginning his baker's day before the sun, just as he has every morning for a decade. Even on his off days, he's conditioned not to sleep in much past dawn.

But for now, he's playing host. _First things first,_ he says. I text Ed to tell him I've arrived safely.

The bread makes the three of us groan. Our groans make Teddy smile.

"The drive was all right? No surprises?"

Emmett, his mouth full of bread, mumbles about the ferry and the bridge. "Standard hassles. Nothing special."

The two of them compare notes about what their dad and mom have been up to. Eddie gets some tips on the best places in the neighborhood to go for a long training run in the morning. We talk casually about nothing important for another hour at least. It's a welcome reprieve from the anxious spirals my mind was spooling out for much of the long car ride.

I've always loved the simplicity of Teddy's approach to life; dating him had been like a long vacation from the process of building a career and finding a purpose. He was a nice guy with a steady job and some hobbies. Harmless, save for a tendency to forget appointments and misplace keys. He was content to keep everything superficial, and that was what I wanted, too. Until it wasn't. I've tried not to dwell on how easily I slipped in and out of his life…how difficult it is to even remember that there was a spark once.

Watching Emmett and Eddie together, I find myself thinking about how conscientious they both are about the health of their relationship. Eddie wakes up every morning thinking: _What will I do to deserve him today_? And vice versa. I wonder if this is my problem when it comes to love. I want to believe fireworks are a natural phenomenon in the sky, when the truth is: someone makes those. Someone holds a lighter to the end.

Eventually, Teddy shows me where the towels are and puts a glass of water in the guest room for me. After a show of protest, Eddie and Emmett take his bed. He takes the couch.

I shut the door and sit in the quiet dark for a moment before I check my phone and find a response from Ed. _Eduardo is killing me at darts. Sleep well. Good luck tomorrow. XO._

And with that, I drift off.

~.~

I'm surprised when I'm up with the first strands of sun. I have three hours until I meet with Siobhan and the others, but I'm too keyed up to sleep. I make some notes in my journal and enjoy the quiet, punctuated from time to time with Teddy's clattering in the bakery downstairs. The smell of fresh bread fills the house, and it's a hundred times more intense than it was last night.

I slip my feet into a random pair of the safety clogs Teddy wears in the shop and wander down to find him separating loaves to cool. His longish sun-streaked hair is gathered out of his face with an office-supply rubber band.

"You never sleep, do you?"

He looks up and grins. "I'm totally a vampire. You know this about me."

"Right." I hoist myself up onto a stainless steel prep table, out of the way.

He places a steaming cup of coffee on the table beside me before I even register what he's doing. Milk, no sugar. Just the way I like it. A frosted cinnamon roll appears next to the mug. I take in the details of the industrial kitchen, not quite putting my finger on what's different about it. Something.

"Ted…" I peel off a strip of the sticky pastry roll and lose my train of thought. "Oh, wow. Cream cheese icing?"

"Naturally." He exaggerates rolling his eyes, as if I've offended his most sacred beliefs. He turns back to his task of packaging loaves, totally engrossed, only to straighten up again suddenly. "Oh! Do you need to get somewhere? Do you want Nessie?"

I shudder inwardly. I can't believe Teddy's ancient green monster of a Volkswagen bus still runs.

"No, no. I have time. And I can ride my old bike. It's still here, right?"

"Right, yeah." The little motorcycle from back when I was with Edward Three would just collect rust in Forks, but Teddy and his staff put it to use making quick ingredient runs around town. In exchange, he keeps it tuned for me.

I watch Teddy take the pencil from behind his ear and start marking up a stack of white boxes, rubber-banding some sort of paperwork to each bundle.

"What's all this? You catering now?"

"This is for the other store. Dude, I've branched out."

"For real?"

He glances up at me from his stooped position, flashing me a bright smile. "In Fremont. It's turning a profit, too. Twelve new people on the payroll. Health insurance. And a third shop, in Pioneer Square, by Thanksgiving."

Profit and insurance? I never thought I'd hear such talk from Teddy.

"Ted. Have you been…taking care of business?"

He laughs.

"That's not all." He bounces across the long room and disappears into his office for a moment, coming back with something I mistake for a thick, cellophane-wrapped cutting board. It's a book.

"Oh my God! Are you kidding me? You published a cookbook?" The cover features a black-and-white photograph of a regular I know as Waylon, his crooked fisherman's fingers dipping a torn crust of bread into soup.

"Isn't it beautiful? I didn't want to mention it until it was in my hands. I was half afraid they'd do a hack job, but…"

He's so proud. He's beaming.

"This is amazing. And it's so you." I flip through, seeing as many portraits of staff and customers as illustrations of technique. The sense of community he always cared so much about comes through loud and clear. Neighborhood characters breaking bread together.

He nudges my swinging foot with his leg. "Come on. Say what you're really thinking."

I laugh. "I mean, to be honest, managing a project like this doesn't sound like the Teddy I know."

He nods his head emphatically, laughing. "That's more like it. I'm a little worried for my reputation."

"As in, people are going to hold you accountable now?"

"Exactly."

I realize what's different about the kitchen. It's _organized_. I look at him, frowning. The years have deepened the crinkles around his eyes, as if his constant smile has worn grooves there. I wonder if there's someone new in his life causing those smiles—and all this newfound responsibility. "What's the story? What's happened to you?"

He shrugs. "One thing led to another. I wanted more control over how my time was spent, and it just sort of snowballed."

"So, you just turned it around? On your own?"

"Are you asking me if I've been whipped into shape by a special lady, Bella?" He's teasing, but there's an edge to his voice.

I can feel myself blushing. I've underestimated him, and he knows it. "No. I don't know. I always thought you were capable. I'm just a little surprised is all. This is…a lot of change."

"Like, _why now_, right? No, I totally get it." He's been wiping down the steel table while we talk, his fastidiousness coming second-nature now. He tosses the used cloth into a hamper and crosses his arms.

I think he's about to wax philosophical about how life has a way of surprising you or something, but what he does say is even more comforting than that, because it tells me the old Teddy is still in there somewhere. "Oh, shit! The rye!"

He throws open the door to a proofing oven and groans. The mound of dough spilling out of the bowl is about twice as puffy as it ought to be.

~.~

Throughout my day spent darting around rain-grey Seattle, I find myself in unfamiliar territory over and over again. _Was this always a one-way street? Since when does the farmer's market close down all of Greenwood Ave.?_

I meet Siobhan in a café to go over some of Wild Clallam's standing policies about gift acceptance and conflicts of interest. The two of us make our meeting with Mr. Jenks and the estate attorney brief and productive. Afterward, I pick up some specialty cheeses that Ed would never admit he misses having easy access to in Forks.

I check my phone and see a response from Rosalie Hale, who confirms she's free to grab lunch. She and I get together once every couple of years. The delicate equilibrium we'd worked out our second year of college wound up deepening into a cautious sort of friendship. Her guarded nature is something I've come to respect, as difficult as it was to understand in the beginning. These days, we mostly talk shop. She runs a domestic violence prevention program focused on teenagers at risk.

"What would you think about a collaboration of some kind? A chaperoned overnight in the woods where we can do some trust-building exercises, maybe have the girls work on a trail improvement project that would help them gain self-esteem?"

I say I think that sounds great, but that I've never done anything like it before.

"You should come. You don't need to be a professional counselor. In fact, it's better for these girls to hear from women who are just in the trenches, you know? Share your stories, the bumps in the road as you figured out how to build a relationship based on trust and respect."

I nod. I do have a story or two like that, but maybe not the ones she's thinking of. Back when we were roommates, she never missed an opportunity to warn me about trusting Edward too much—when she was speaking to me at all, that is. I look at her, trying to decide whether to bring up the past. She beats me to it.

"I never understood that _orbit_ thing you had with that guy Edward. He was so intense about you...it didn't seem normal for a couple of eighteen-year-old kids."

"He was nineteen. But yeah, I know exactly what you mean."

"To be honest, Bella…that was more about my own trust issues, I guess…"

She chances a quick glance my way, and I see the self-conscious grimace that is her version of an apology.

"And anyhow, things changed when you were away—"

"What, my semester abroad?"

"Yeah. I mean, he didn't change. I changed my opinion about him because of how he didn't do what I expected, I guess."

She tells me how she often saw Edward reading or drawing under the tree where he and I used to spend so much time—but always alone. The parade of naïve first-year students she'd predicted never materialized. She tells me he was the one who found my bicycle and bought it back from a shady dealer after the storage lockers were broken into and looted.

I don't mind that she never told me these stories before now; we both know the reasons why it wouldn't have mattered.

I change the subject and nose around about her current love life. She seems to be in a good place—single, content, open to possibilities—and even though I wouldn't have wished Teddy on any of my female friends a year ago, I find myself wondering if he and Rose would hit it off. By the time we wrap up our lunch, she's tentatively agreed to come to Forks the same weekend as Teddy's visit.

The clouds have cleared, and the late afternoon sunlight makes the wet streets shine. As I ride up to the hospital parking lot, I'm leaning toward optimism in my speculation about how Edward might have changed over the course of the last twelve years. Ten and a half years. I'm not sure how to count.

~.~

I scan the glass façade of Seattle Medical Center, wondering just how many dramas are playing out in so many rooms behind all those windows. Edward may well be looking down at me this very moment.

A cup of tea seems like a good idea, just to calm my nerves before I go up. The cafeteria clerk nods at me in a sympathetic way that tells me they sell a lot of peppermint tea. I hesitate at the door and, as an afterthought, turn to scan the far shelf for a napkin dispenser. It isn't until I feel the sting of hot liquid splashing against my flinching forearm that I realize I'm looking right at him.

Edward.

That's the line of his jaw. The tilt of his head. My face heats. I shouldn't be startled, except for the way he's staring from behind opaque lenses, motionless and impassive. His arms are crossed in front of his chest, and one shoulder is propped against a wall in the corner of his booth. When he doesn't move a muscle as I pat my damp sleeve with my palm, still napkin-less, I reevaluate.

He's not staring. He's asleep.

I blow out a cool breath, suddenly grateful for this chance to—what? Acclimate to his presence? Mask my reaction to how the years might have changed him? I can see from this distance that the table in front of him is cluttered with papers, a notebook, orange rinds. I wonder how long it's been since he left this building. My feet move me closer.

_He's only a brother today, _I remind myself._ Jasper's exhausted, worried brother._

Of course, as soon as I think it, I fend off a wave of memories that have nothing at all to do with anything brotherly. Things like space heaters and hairy thighs and the slip of boxer shorts under my hand. Our two pairs of snowy boots leaking silt-grey water onto the floor near our heads. His dry socks enveloping my feet, wooly and too big.

_Okay. _I take a breath. _At least that's done._

His temples are sprinkled with just a bit of grey. Not a lot. His lips are dry. He doesn't look all that different from the boy I first noticed on a bench in front of the library, down to the ill-fitting wool sweater and unruly hair. _That_ boy I can handle. _That_ boy isn't carrying me piggy-back over a leafy puddle or leaving erotic watercolor prints between the pages of books in my study carrel.

I set down my tea and ease into the molded fiberglass bench beside him as his head lolls and the plastic frames fall askew, sliding halfway off of one ear. It looks uncomfortable.

I slip the sunglasses off and instantly wish I hadn't; this is his sleeping face. _Well, what did I think I would see?_ I push visions of pillowcases and soft predawn light out of my mind. That's the scar below his eyebrow, courtesy of Jasper, tequila, and a wooden oar. I've never been able to look at it without imagining the sting of saltwater, without seeing a bloom of his blood staining the overturned hull of a canoe.

He stirs and shifts. He hasn't changed at all. Almost not at all.

I take out my journal, thinking I'll write while he sleeps. For the first time in a long time, I have no idea what to say. _Dear Alice_ is as far as I get. I make wordless doodles, filling page after page with curlicues and boxes atop boxes, until I hear his breathing change.

Wary of startling him, I watch his consciousness fight its way to the surface. He blinks once, and his hands roam to grip the table and my elbow, pressing his forearm to mine. I don't know what to do. In another minute, he's gazing at me, all heavy-lidded and expressionless, his thumb moving lazily across my elbow. His grasp on me tightens, and when he feels live muscle flex back his eyes flutter open for real.

"Oh." He straightens up with a sharp intake of air, blinking, and drags his hand away from my sleeve. He frowns uncertainly, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

"Sorry," he says. His voice is gravelly. "Hi."

"Hi." I can feel my cheeks pinch into a smile, and he smiles, too.

His eyes flash to my sleeve, then the window, the blue cloudless sky. Confusion creases his brow. "Why…why are you wet?"

"It's tea. I spilled a little." He's avoiding really looking at me, and that's fine. Better, maybe.

"Hmm." Now that his eyes are open, I can see how tired he is. He carries the strain in the corners of his eyes, in the way he won't focus completely. He rakes the hair back from his face and clears his throat.

He takes the edge of my sleeve between his fingers and folds it back, revealing a pink welt. I can hear his breath catch, but he doesn't sigh in exasperation like he would have once.

"It's nothing. I'll be fine."

He smirks and narrows his green eyes. There it is. I remember that look. "Well, we_ are_ in a hospital. But you know that."

"I'll see about some aloe."

I fold my arms and lean back against the booth wall. I'm still waiting for the compulsory awkwardness, the run-down of a decade's worth of changes and news, but it doesn't come. The context doesn't allow it, I suppose. It's as if whatever drug is keeping Jasper in a coma has leached out into the atmosphere, numbing everyone. I'm grateful for it.

"Edward…how is he?"

He takes a long, smooth breath. I watch him lift the paper cup from the table and blow on it absently. He takes a sip. "Healing, they say. We just can't see it. There's a lot of stuff going on—the blood supply is restored, swelling is going down. But his brain needs time to get back to…wherever it's going to get."

He snaps his head up. "Oh, hell, I'm drinking your tea."

"It's all right. You probably need it more than I do right now." I think I only buy it for that minty aroma anyways.

He does that thing where he listens, looks me in the eye, and lets a blink stand for saying _thank you_ out loud. He takes another sip.

"I didn't know if you'd come." He pinches the lip of the paper cup between his thumb and fingernail, making an anxious circuit. "Jenks called me. He said you recused yourself from the donation discussions."

I nod. "Tribute gifts are one thing, but…from what I understand, Wild Clallam is in Jasper's will. I don't want to know anything more than that. I hope I never know." In my line of work, there's a euphemism people use when they talk about bequests: _waiting for the gift to mature_. It means _waiting for the donor to die_.

"Oh." His gaze falls to the table. I see a hint of something in his expression—disappointment?

"Unless—I mean, do you think I should try to know? Do you think it's better, as you put it before, for karma?"

He looks up at me again, a whisper of a smile on his lips at odds with the weariness in his eyes. "No, B. I think whatever you think is right is right."

How can things that tumble out of his mouth so easily and quietly seem so loud in my ears? There's clarity in his voice and eyes. He seems to let himself look at me more directly now.

His eyes pause on the helmet strapped to my backpack. A shadow flickers across his face. "You didn't ride from Forks on a motorcycle?"

"No…I keep it in a friend's garage here."

He strokes his jaw, grimacing. "I think I know your friend."

"Teddy?" That's a surprise.

"A lawyer? Quiet guy, biker, kind of a…partyer?"

That would be Number Three. And that's the tone of voice that makes _partyer_ signify _coke user_. I can only imagine where Edward might have crossed paths with him, and all I can think is that Jasper was involved, which turns my stomach. I recall the day I found a tiny plastic zip-seal pouch in the dryer's lint trap, along with a shredded stub from a Seattle concert venue. _Some business trip_, I remember thinking.

"Oh. No. Different guy. That ended as soon as I found out he was doing more than drinking. Eight years back. I kept the bike, though."

Edward nods, his lips turning up into a half-smile. He takes another sip of tea and looks me up and down, as if he's evaluating my general constitution. He must see something that gives him confidence, because he nudges me to stand up.

"Come on. You came here with a purpose, I think. Let's go see Jasper."

~.~

I do my best.

In the hallway, Edward tries to prepare me. _He might look miserable, but his body isn't injured. You can touch him—you won't hurt him. Say hello. _He takes the paper bag of forest plants I brought with me and leaves it in the hall. _He can't have this in the ICU. Maybe in the step-down unit. _He has me wash my hands.

Jasper isn't gaunt and frail like I imagined; he's bigger than I remember him being. He looks physically strong. He looks like he could be asleep, but for the tubes taped to his face and snaking out from his loose robe. The room isn't cold and sterile like I expect, either; the window ledge is cluttered with bottles of moisturizer and skin cleanser, an iPod and speakers, framed snapshots, Edward's sketches, stacks of books. I make out a title that reads _Speech and Language after Traumatic Brain Injury_. Another reads _Essential Massage Handbook_.

Edward is saying things about motor control and reflexes and hemispheres. He sits on the corner of the bed with none of the hesitancy I feel, taking Jasper's hand in his and massaging it while he talks. He says _Jasper, guess who's here_. His knee rests familiarly against his brother's form under the sheets. He straightens a fold of fabric. I realize with a start that this is the first time I've actually seen with my own eyes what was ever-present in both of their stories about one another. This unwavering bond.

The envelope I'm clutching bends and crumples. I feel like a voyeur. I feel ridiculous for ever thinking I'd be anything more in this moment. And then I watch Edward swipe an eyelash from Jasper's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, and a second epiphany hits me, and I feel ridiculous for ever trying to plot out my route to happiness the way I have. Love either is or isn't.

Edward is looking up again, and either he's stopped speaking mid-sentence or the drumming in my ears is drowning him out. His gaze drifts down my face and neck. I set the letter down on a corner of the bedspread. I shake my head, saying, _This is probably silly. You decide._ And then I'm halfway down the corridor, fumbling in my pocket for my phone.

~.~

_March, 2011_

_Dear Jasper,_

_I brought you some things from the forest. You can call me a nerd—I don't care. There's a sapling with roots here; it needs sandy soil and mixed sun. You should be able to smell the pine needles in the meantime. There are some fiddleheads and hen-of-the-woods mushrooms, too. If somebody wants to fry the stuff up for you, maybe it will stimulate some fond memories deep in your cortex there (And yes, they're edible, in case the cook wants a taste). I put some moss and live ferns under a glass bell for you. _

_I wrote and rewrote this so many times. Everything sounds trite, as much as I sincerely mean it. I don't know what I can say, especially after so long. _

_But I keep coming back to the same idea, so I'm just going to go with it. _

_You and I had a conversation once about…difficult people. About being held back and weighted down. It was the day I found you at Edward's empty apartment, when he was due back from Rome. I actually doubt that you'd remember saying everything you did, because you were out of your mind on something at the time, but you were adamant about how you felt. _

_I never said anything to Edward, and the point isn't for him to learn those details through this letter. So I'll only say that it made me think for a long time afterward about what it means to be a burden to another person. A weight they wish they could shake. _

_I've felt this way—guiltily—about Alice from time to time. _

_I told you about her. She always wanted big things for me. That wish was in the last thing she said to me: "Promise you won't be one of those girls, Bella," she said. "Don't marry the first boy you kiss. Find enough happiness for the both of us."_

_I mention Alice because, well, I watched her decide to give up, Jasper. I'll never forget it. For years, I tried to block it out. I finally came to realize I could accept the accident, but not her giving up. I know she could have held on until the ambulance arrived, but she wouldn't listen to me. She made a stupid joke about scars and prom, and she let go. And she was wrong to do it. Sorry to be morose, and I know it sounds disloyal, but I'm so afraid of you making this same mistake. I'm afraid you won't let people take care of you._

_She left me money, too—just like you're trying to do. It was enough to make certain things happen. I went to that fancy college because of her. Paris, too. But it didn't make me free, I realized. It made me beholden to someone else's dream._

_I thought I was failing Alice when I admitted to myself that I love what I love. But it's the truth. I love Forks. I love feeling anchored…by my work, my community. By my relationships. They don't feel like burdens to me at all. Funny how the way you decide to think about a thing makes a difference._

_I thought you should know I came to see you as this type of anchor, in a way, and I'm grateful for it. Without knowing it, without trying to, you helped me feel the solid earth beneath my feet. With your joyfulness in the forest, you showed me everything that was worth fighting for on this little peninsula of mine...so much so that I knew I could create a full and happy life right here. I'm writing to thank you for that. It's meant more to me than any donations ever could—even the very generous donations I learned are coming from you._

_So, this is my way of getting around to the clichés. Stay alive. Keep fighting. Maybe I haven't seen you for years, but I know how strong you are. I know how much you love life. Don't let up. _

_Your friend, _

_Bella_

_P.S. About this bequest you have on file…the paperwork is in order, I'm sure you know. Should I say that I'll respect your wishes if it comes to that? I won't let myself think that it will. For the time being, I've asked your attorney to keep me out of the loop. More than any amount of money, Wild Clallam needs you out and about in the forest, Jasper. I can't wait to take you back there. _

~.~

Thanks to everyone for reading! **Happymelt** is an amazing beta for talking me out of wrong-headed thinking and she is the reason this is not a 2,500-word chapter. The pre-readers for this story are **faireyfan** and **midsouthmama** and they are so terrific and fun. What are people reading? I'm really enjoying Green Light Rising by pingvingirl...gatsby-esque, if that means something to you, but-more importantly-beautifully written.


	6. Chapter 6: Between Us

**Chapter 6: Between Us**

Reading and rereading my text messages from this afternoon is a recipe for misery, and yet I continue to do it compulsively, knowing Eddie is itching to take the phone from me and stow it in the glove box.

**3:50 To Eddie:** Calling an audible. Can we leave early? tonight?

**3:54 ****To Ed:** Hey, are you around?

**3:58 ****From Emmett:** What's up QB1? Eddie's indisposed.

**3:59 ****To Emmett:** Oh, sorry to interrupt. No rush. Take your time.

**4:03 From Emmett:** LOLLLLLLL he's just in the shower.

**4:04 From Emmett:** But I can go round 3, if you insist! BRB.

**4:06 To Emmett:** OMG TMI

**4:08 From Emmett:** What? I meant a training run. What did you mean? ;^D

**4:11 From Ed:** I'm at Home Depot. Kill me now. Light fixture hell.

**4:13 To Ed:** Oh Ed. I could have helped you.

**4:14 To Emmett:** Being serious now. I do need to get home.

**4:16 From Ed:** I could have let you. But you know how I get…

**4:17 From Ed:** How did it go today?

**4:21 From Emmett: **Of course, friend. This is E now on Em's phone. CU at Ted's.

**4:22 To Ed:** Went okay, I guess. Jasper is in good hands.

**4.24 From Ed: **State senators on the docket tomorrow?

**4:25 To Ed:** Rescheduling that. I'm coming home tonight.

**4:28 From Ed:** Oh.

**4:29 From Ed:** . . .

**4:31 To Ed:** ?

**4:32 From Ed: **Waiting for you to say "we need to talk"

**4:32 From Teddy:** Sending sandwiches for the road. Do you want caprese on baguette or portabella + goat cheese on focaccia?

**4:33 From Renee:** Phil brought home three bags of something called morels from a roadside stand. Jesus Christ. Since when do I eat mushrooms? If you want them, they R yours. Phil will dry them, he says.

**4:35 To Ed:** Um. Yes. We do.

**4:36 From (206)555-5555:** Thank you for coming. It was good to see you, even for just a few minutes.

**4:39 From (206)555-5555:** I read your letter to Jasper. No, not silly. I think you felt overwhelmed being there, but believe me, it helped. And the letter helped. Thank you.

**4:39 To Teddy:** Portabella, or whatever's easier. Thanks—you're sweet.

**4:40 To Ed:** Call me?

**4:44 From Ed:** Just get here. I'm turning off my phone.

We're still a good hour from Forks. I've been ignoring the messages from Renee and Edward. The only person on my mind right now is Ed. Eddie catches my eye in the rearview mirror and launches a series of twisting, reclining, and scrambling actions that move him to the back seat.

"What? It's my patented tuck and shimmy. You should see me do it in a Mini Cooper."

This earns a glare from Emmett.

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Oh, relax. The only Mini Cooper backseat I've ever been in is your mother's, and you know it."

This makes me snort, because in any other context it would be an insult. Emmett smirks. Eddie pulls me to his chest and nestles his hands in my hair, massaging a spot at the nape of my neck. It works like an on button for my tears. "All right, all right. This fucking sucks. Will it help to talk?"

"After."

He sighs and squeezes me hard. "You're sure?"

I nod. I'm sure. I've been afraid to acknowledge it for a while, but it's clear as day now.

~.~

Ed is waiting on the couch with a full bottle of whiskey and two empty glasses, his knee bouncing. He can guess what's coming. To his credit, he stops short of doing it for me.

When I finally manage to blurt out the words, he surprises me by getting angry; I think he surprises himself. He bolts to the opposite side of the room. He paces and shoves the magazine basket with his foot.

"It's nothing you did or could have done," I say.

"Hah. Yeah. Tell me something I don't know." He shakes his head at his own bitterness and softens his tone. "I'm just saying…I haven't been anything but good to you."

I nod. That's not the issue.

He questions me, clenching his jaw. "Is it that…man? Did something happen in Seattle I need to know about?" He hates doubting me as much as I hate being doubted.

"Nothing happened with him," I say. "Not like you mean."

He waits for me to explain.

"I used to think I was afraid to commit because of my parents or something. But I figured out that wasn't it. When I was in that hospital room, Ed…" I trail off, sparing him the details, and start again. "Don't you think…when you reach the end of your life—a long time from now—when you look back on it, you want to know you were loved by someone's whole heart. You don't deserve anything less than that. I don't know why it isn't me. It just isn't."

The glimmer of recognition on his face makes me crumple. He's been afraid to acknowledge this, too. He doesn't try to tell me I'm wrong.

I blot my tears with my bunched-up sleeves. When he holds back from comforting me, it's a shock, and then a fascination, like the gruesome, copper-tasting gaps my tongue wouldn't leave alone when I had my wisdom teeth pulled.

The whiskey helps. It helps him, too. He leans his back against the couch, tenting his knees. "I don't fucking want to start all over, Bella. I'm thirty three years old. I want a family." Even as he says it, he shakes his head, dismissing his own reasoning.

"I don't know what to do to make this right," I say, sliding down to the floor by his side. My hands go to his shoulders by sheer force of habit.

He paws my face like a sculptor handling clay, trying to teach himself some new touch that isn't a caress. I almost lose my nerve and take it all back, and then I picture Ed where Jasper was—only old and grey—being loved by someone's whole unflinching heart. He'll find her. I know he will.

"I'm sorry," I hear myself say. "I lo"—and he stops my words with his mouth, mumbling _Don't you dare_ against my teeth. His lips move roughly across my face, familiar and not.

"Should I stop you?" I manage. "Does this make it worse?"

He mutters into my skin, "I don't care. I don't care." I don't know if it's an answer or a mantra. I help him shove my clothes aside. I'm relieved that he doesn't try to make me come; I need to know his selfish streak is in there somewhere. He only maneuvers me away from the burn of the area rug without slowing the thrusting of his hips. It feels good—the heat of his body, his skin, the low rumbling groan in his chest that I'll never hear again, even the choked gasp at the end that I've never heard before. It's all Ed. Just Ed who I love a lot, but not enough.

I fall asleep curled into Ed's side on the floor, but I wake up in our bed with blankets tucked around me. Some of his things are gone, and there's a note next to a full pot of coffee. _I'll come for the rest of my stuff by the end of the week. Crashing on Eduardo's couch for now._

I lean against the door frame to the guest room. He's completed it while I was away—down to the last light fixture. It's perfect. The bed doesn't look slept in.

~.~

The next two weeks pass in a fog of guilt and whatever distracting tasks I can create for myself. Ed is stoic, treating me gently whenever we cross paths, expecting the same from me. Eddie studiously avoids bringing up Edward—any and all Edwards, really—for at least a respectable grace period. Emmett pounds on my door at seven every morning to have me accompany him on the last third of his morning run. More donation checks filter in from Jasper's friends and family, and I respond with the requisite acknowledgements. _Your generous gift is fully tax deductible. _

I pin Renee down on a time I can pick up her cache of morels, and I do my best to tolerate her rambling. She's less surprised than I expect her to be when I tell her about Ed. _You never wanted someone to take care of you_, she says. _Not that I ever did a perfect job of trying. But that poor boy…selling what you weren't buying, all this time. He'll see. Letting him go is the best thing you could have done for him. _For once, she seems to see me clearly.

~.~

On weekends, I hike up into the Hoh rainforest and let myself wander. Along one of the trails, there's a certain nurse log I like to use as a bench. Today, it's a meeting spot. Eddie is joining me here while Emmett cross-trains on Hurricane Ridge. I sit on the log gingerly, trying to stick to the same spot every time, interfering as little as possible with the foliage. It comforts me to see the bright green moss and saplings latched onto the fallen tree's decomposing, nutrient-rich bark.

I remember coming here on a school field trip years ago. Alice had complained. _This is dead and it smells._ _You should call the town and have it removed!_ Taking charge, even then. We must have been eight or nine.

Our ranger had laughed at the idea of calling "the town," but then he'd bent to one knee and pointed out the miniature ecosystem sprouting up all along the horizontal surface of the fallen tree. _As the wood breaks down, it turns into something other plants can use._

I remember feeling something shift in that moment—suddenly seeing the tiny colonies of ferns and little green things. New life where once I only saw decay. A plan and a type of symmetry in place of a green-and-brown blur. I imagined myself to be a ladybug creeping up a spongy moss hill many times my size.

The ranger pointed to the patch of blue sky above us. _See that? Sunlight. When this big old tree was alive, it had thick branches full of needles, and it kept the whole forest floor in its shadow. Who remembers what it's called when plants use sunlight?_ He looked around the group, listening for shouted answers. _That's right, photosynthesis. So now the sunlight can reach the forest floor, and new things can grow._

The crunch of snapping twigs and a burst of profanity startles me out of my daydream.

"Goddamn creepy woodland creature! You're a mouse; you're not even cute!" Eddie waves and stomps like he's trying to scare away a bear. I take in his bright blue suede New Balance sneakers and remind myself what a good friend he is to meet me up here; hiking is not his thing.

I don't make fun of him for flailing, but he smirks and rolls his eyes as if I had. He finds a dry patch of log to sit on and fishes a flask out of his messenger bag.

"For the cider."

"Was I supposed to bring cider?"

"Hold this." He rummages some more and produces an old-fashioned thermos. We both straddle the log, facing each other. After a few moments passing the steaming thermos-lid cup back and forth, Eddie makes that spooling gesture with his hand—the universal sign for _spill it_.

"I don't really know where to begin."

"Okay. Start in the middle. We'll sort it out."

"All right. So…do you remember when Lauren's boyfriend moved out in the middle of the night and left her on the hook for the lease?"

He nods.

"And Jessica Stanley, who had a complex about her nipples for five years after some jerk made her feel like a freak? And what I told you about Rosalie and that d-bag back in Rochester who…"

"Yeah, I remember. What about them?"

"It seems like every woman I know has a story like that. Even Renee. Especially Renee, I guess." I hold out the cup for a refill. "I thought it was important not to get screwed over in love. I thought being betrayed was the worst thing that could happen."

Eddie is quiet, which means he thinks I should keep talking.

"Then when it finally _did _happen…a few years ago…"

"Edward James."

"Right. James Edwards." Number Five. He'd even lied to me about his name. "Well, it wasn't the end of the world."

"No, it wasn't. Not even close. If I recall, you were rather focused on getting his commercial developer's license revoked."

"I can't think of a worse way to hurt me than what he did—trying to destroy Wild Clallam from within. I mean, this whole hillside would be real estate right now. It infuriates me that he tried it, but I never felt _hurt_ by it."

"Why didn't you? Is that the question?"

I can't try to answer this.

"And you're wondering why you were able to let go of Ed the way you did? This is why you're draining brandied cider like a Saint Bernard in the Alps?"

"Saint Bernards don't drink the booze. They deliver it." I hand him back the empty cup and watch him screw the thermos closed.

"My theory?" He cocks his head. "Your heart isn't made of stone. It's resilient because it's never been broken."

I think about this. Even after having Number Five threaten my life's work…after losing Alice, after my parents flaking out…I know what it feels like to be tested. But I've never felt truly shattered. Not even Edward made me feel that way—Edward, who could have crushed my eighteen-year-old heart like a grape.

"So, what I have to look forward to is getting my heart monumentally broken and either never recovering, or making a miraculous comeback?"

"I have my money on a secret third option, but okay."

I take a deep breath. Before I can press him, he barrels ahead.

"You did the right thing, you know. Letting him go."

"I know." I stand up.

"For both of you."

Eddie is a good friend. On our way back down the trail, he gets giddy recognizing a colonnade—a super-straight row of trees with stilt-like roots that once straddled a nurse log, which has itself long since disappeared. Probably centuries ago.

"You've been paying attention."

"It's what I do."

~.~

A few days later, Lauren hands me my incoming correspondence folder, and I'm surprised to see a few sealed envelopes in the mix. She usually opens my mail—unless it's personal, and who sends personal mail to the office? Someone who I haven't told my home address, I guess.

The three letters are postmarked on three different days; one of them, with a nearly illegible address, bears those strange post office markings that accompany a delay. I know that handwriting—the sloppy version and the neat. I shove them in my bag until I'm home, and then I put them in order and read.

_April 11, 2011_

_Bella, _

_The more things calm down around here, the more I realize how out of it I've been. I think I was half-delirious when you stopped by. Sorry we didn't get a chance to talk—but I'm not sure I could have strung together three intelligent sentences, if I'm being totally honest. _

_Sleep deprivation is like being drunk on tequila, if you remember that. I do. Actually, that might not be a great comparison. Why am I bringing that up? (See—impaired judgment. Still not 100%). _

_I thought you'd want to know things are improving. They took Jasper off his Sleeping Beauty__ serum yesterday__. This is really good news. He's breathing on his own, which is huge. There were some weird moments…they warned us he would be all instinct, no rational thought (at first! It comes back), and this translated into J. trying to physically bend the bed rails like the Incredible Hulk, swearing up a storm. _

_He doesn't understand why he can't get out of bed—that he might hurt himself. Not to mention the catheter, which he tries to tear out (sorry, too much?). Mom wants to tape record him swearing just so she can listen to his voice all hours of the day. She's like a new person. I guess I am, too—I slept through the night. Then I woke up and thought to write to you._

_I hope it isn't terrible that I'm dumping all of this into a letter, by the way. I've had time to get used to this, and you haven't. Something tells me you can handle it. More than handle—really want to know._

_Won't keep you. Just know that things are better here. _

_-E_

_P.S. Did I thank you for coming? I hope I did. Just in case: thanks. _

His exhaustion is obvious. I jump up to silence the whistling tea kettle and find myself thinking back to a certain sweet-talking morning ritual of his. He would wind his arms and legs around mine and stretch me into little poses like a marionette, mimicking the tasks I would do throughout the day, describing my near-term future in dulcet tones. Riding my bicycle. Moving through the cafeteria line. Trying not to sleep through Dr. Berty's lecture. And always it would end with me greeting him again, and he would circle my arms around him in a recumbent embrace and slip his feet under my feet.

I sit back down with my tea.

_April 13, 2011_

_Bella, _

_I reread your letter to J. today. It helps. It helps me. Well, certain parts are hard to read. Your friend Alice, for one thing. I wish I had known back then just how bad it was for you. I'd chalk it up to hindsight always being clearer, but I know it's more than that. The perspective you have now—that only comes with time. I know mine has._

_Jasper going back to the forest with you is a goal I like imagining. They've moved him from intensive care to the step-down unit, where we can let him have the plants you brought (I gave those green swirly things and the mushrooms to our favorite nurse the day you brought them, by the way. I hope you don' t mind—I didn't think they would keep, and I don't have access to a stove here. Anyhow, she brought them back the next day baked in a quiche.)._

_(Oh! Thanks for the sandwich basket. Teddy from Ted's Breads is the friend you mentioned, huh? I saw him ride up on the same motorcycle you rode away on that day. He explained about your boyfriend needing you for an urgent something-or-other at home. I know you coming all this way had to be a hassle—I appreciate it.)_

_So, next for J. is speech therapy, then occupational therapy (I vaguely imagined this had to do with learning job skills—turns out to be more about holding a fork and tying shoes). At some point we'll need to deal with how the meds have messed with his addiction recovery. Whatever he needs. My life is more or less designed to be rearranged on demand. _

_I like wondering what your life is like now. In a non-stalkerish way. I mean, I like knowing what you've created with this organization. Is it weird to say I'm proud of you? When I saw everything about Wild Clallam in J.'s files, I was amazed that you stayed in Forks. I was sure—Kebi told me, actually—you wanted to go to Chicago or New York to do urban planning or something. But we can talk about all that another time. (Unless I presume too much?)_

_I should mention: the social worker here warned me about problems discerning boundaries during a crisis—so if it's too much, I hope you'll attribute it to the situation and tell me to back off. Just don't stay away, okay? Jasper will want to see you._

_- E_

_P.S. I'll want to see you. I mean, I do. Want to. If you can._

I can't make sense of the disconnect between the Edward writing this letter and the one who pushed me away all those years ago. Is it possible he doesn't remember? Or is he consciously choosing not to address the elephant in the room, given that there's a much more worrisome gorilla in the room, too?

_Jasper is getting better_, I tell myself. That's important. I read on.

_April 14, 2011_

_B-_

_I'm starting to see the appeal of this letter-writing thing._

_I just dropped a note in the mail to you yesterday, but there's something I can't put out of my mind. I didn't know, until you mentioned it in your letter to J., that it was you who found him that day. (He was at my apartment, I was always told—were you there?) I'm curious what it was you talked about, but mostly I'm grateful that you were there. I don't like to think about how much danger he was in. I swear, Bella, if I'd known…I would have at least followed up to tell you he was all right. At the very least. _

_As you well know, there's nothing like seeing someone you love fighting for life to make you undertake a critical accounting of your choices. Jasper's done it to me twice. The first time it happened, I made some decisions using the resources I had available to me at the time—at 21, that wasn't much. I know that now. _

_I was so full of predictions and projections in those days. The older I get, the less I care about guessing what might happen and trying to correct the course—no, that's not right. I only worry about it less. At the same time, I care quite a lot about these things I can't control. I don't know what's worse. _

_This isn't exactly what I imagined saying to you when I sat down at this table. I guess I'm not as well-rested as I thought right now. Or I'm sharp enough not to say or do something dumb._

_I'll either scrap this and start all over or put it directly into the mail before the word-vomit really starts. Let's talk soon, okay? _

_- E._

~.~

What scares me now is that I understand him perfectly. As perfectly as I ever did.

_You'll take nine thousand, six hundred forty two steps today. You'll find your scarf in the lost and found at the Student Union. You'll see the middle school kids selling fundraiser chocolate bars and think of me, but you won't buy any because you know I'm trying to cut back. Then you'll say something smart in seminar, and be back here again. Home, B. Just like this. _

_A secret third option. _

_Don't you dare._

I go to sleep half-dreaming about the ranger whose sleeve I wouldn't stop tugging. My eyes ping-ponging between the towering spruces and the little green shoots. _How long does it take? How long?_

_Like a century, kiddo. Maybe more. Maybe more._

He was right, too. In the dream, though, I keep asking: _How long?_

_~.~_

_**AN: Many thanks to beta 'big guns" happymelt and prereaders faireyfan and midsouthmama. Have a nice labor day weekend, everyone (if that's a thing in your part of the world).  
><strong>_


	7. Chapter 7: Half a Monument

**Chapter 7: Half a Monument**

I point Angela toward Ben's camera, and she poses as if she's pounding in the last trail marker with a sledgehammer. Her skinny arms tremble with the effort of holding the heavy hammer still.

"Hurry up!" she laughs.

Ben huddles with her and points something out on the camera's screen that makes her laugh. It's only when I squint at the digital display that I see it: a ring, glinting in the sunlight. It's been on her hand this whole time.

I seize her fingers, rolling my eyes at myself. "Please tell me you haven't been wearing this for more than a week. I'm the least observant coworker ever."

She breaks into a toothy smile when she sees my own grin. "I wasn't sure…I mean, the timing. I don't know."

"Are you kidding me? Congratulations. You guys. I've had money on this happening some time before Memorial Day. I want my fifty bucks!" I crane my neck, looking around for Lauren. She's handing out snacks to the volunteers.

"You knew?" Angela casts a sideways glance at Ben, who shrugs.

"He didn't say anything. I just had a hunch." She's been asking for more responsibility and dropping hints about saving for a down payment; I could tell she was settling down with Ben, at the very least.

I'm happy for her. I'm surprised at how happy I am for her, actually. The way they are—nothing about it feels like _that could have been me_. Even after five years together, it's all giddy excitement, all moony-eyed peas in a pod. Cute. And utterly, absolutely foreign to me.

I'm satisfied with my work and my friends. I know how to be on my own and content; I've done it before. The sun on my face feels good, and I can hear the wind in the trees. The new hiking trail is something to be proud of—clean, safe, easy to navigate. With the influx of donations from Jasper's loved ones, we're ahead of schedule on completing our capital improvement projects for the year.

~.~

I've finally entered Edward's name into the contacts on my phone, thinking: _another first_. When we were in college, almost no one had cell phones. And in any case, he was always just…around. Face to face. I'm on the porch watering my attempt at a flower garden when he calls. His voice is tentative. I'm surprised that I can distinguish it; this is only the third time we've talked on the phone.

The first time, the morning after I read his letters, my call went straight to his voicemail. He called me back from the land line in the hospital room, holding the receiver up to Jasper's ear so I could say hello. We stuck to subjects that seemed safe, if not exactly easy. Jasper and Wild Clallam, for the most part. I probed just enough to tease out that sense of calm I knew he was looking for. _Yeah. That's just like Jasper. I remember. _I bit my tongue and changed the subject when he asked how I was doing, thinking: _that's private_. Thinking: _I miss Ed, his soft tee shirts, his weight next to me on the bed_. I decided Edward didn't need to know details about my situation—not now. Not while Jasper was his 24/7 concern.

The second time he called, he was at his apartment in Seattle. _My files are here. Bunch of contracts and checks in the mail. I need to get some shit done, _he'd said. He worked as a freelance illustrator, he'd told me. _Magazines and book covers. That type of thing._ And then _Dad had a service in to clean up_. _My coffee table is missing—smashed, probably. I guess there was some broken glass; I didn't even realize._ That's how I knew he was with Jasper when it happened, so we talked about that. A voice inside me said: _he lives alone, then_.

He was easy and forthcoming, rambling on and on. It should have softened me, weakened my resolve to keep my distance, but instead it reminded me of waiting for a different ambulance for Jasper on a different evening in a different decade. Staring at the detritus littering a different coffee table. _Maybe the same coffee table_, it occurred to me.

This time, though, Edward is hesitant. He has a request. More precisely, he is the messenger of a request.

I move inside to find a scrap of paper and scribble down details, mentally listing the tasks I'll need Angela and Lauren to handle while I'm away.

"Hey…thanks for coming here in person for this, and on your weekend. I know it isn't easy. But Jasper—he…"

"Oh, hey. Of course."

He talks me through the directions. Even though my destination is a mere twenty miles across the water, visible from the Dungeness Lighthouse, getting there from here involves a seven-hour journey and two border crossings. I rummage for a second scrap of paper to jot down schedules for the three ferries I'll need to take. Edward's voice sounds more relaxed as he describes the last stretch of road before I'll reach his and Jasper's childhood home on Lopez Island. And I thought Forks was remote.

"You can park your car at Iceberg Point, where Mackaye Harbor Road dead ends. I'll be over to pick you up in the boat. We, uh…my parents, that is…they actually live on a very small island off the coast of Lopez. It isn't served by a regular ferry."

"No ferry? But how do you get your cars across?" The words are out before a memory comes to me: Edward flustered and waving off teasing about his driving. He didn't know how to parallel park. _I started late_, he'd said, truly embarrassed. I feel my ears turn pink, alone here in my kitchen.

"Um…we leave them on the mainland. I mean, Lopez. All we keep here is a tractor, because…well, we don't exactly have roads."

"No roads?"

"Uh-uh. Reconsidering?"

"No. No, I'm sorry. Just surprised." I make a note to charge my phone.

"No worries. I get that a lot."

My brain wants to dwell on "a lot"—_from whom?_ I shake my head. "Um, I'd like to bring a friend with me, if that's all right. To help with the driving. Eddie."

"Oh—wait, what? Did you just call me Eddie?"

"No, I was telling you…his name is Eddie."

"Um, yeah. We have a bunch of spare rooms. Or—what am I saying?—he can stay with you. You can choose, I mean. Whatever you like."

"He's just a friend."

He clears his throat. "Well, we'll make him welcome. Your friend Eddie." We say goodbye—the _see you soon_ type.

~.~

I've rearranged the furniture since Ed moved out. The sun falls on my bed now in such a way that it helps me wake up in the morning. I'm getting used to the quiet, to the cupboards that don't empty themselves mysteriously. I watch my fill of idiotic reality TV shows. I don't miss Ed's nail clippings in the sink. I don't miss him complaining that my shower is fogging up the mirror while he shaves. Well, maybe a little.

I tug my duffle bag from the dusty recesses of the closet and let my eyes wander to a cardboard box at the back. With a shrug, I reach for it. My journals. The really old ones.

~.~

An after-work gathering at the Evergreen Lodge turns into an impromptu engagement party for Angela and Ben. Emmett shows up and gives Eduardo a hard time about his flip flops and tank top. Lauren and Eddie have a long conversation about the various skills an aspiring international spy should perfect. _Knife-throwing. Skydiving. Poker._

When Lauren pauses to Google underwater welding on her phone, Eddie reaches a hand under the table and pats my knee. It's our code for _Do you need to leave? _But I shake my head. I'm fine.

I watch Ed across the bar, half-surrounded by his teacher friends. He looks rested, the color in his face rosy. I try to figure out what else is different, and then I realize: he doesn't keep his distance from wandering hands. Fingers brush his arm from time to time; I can see him trying to be normal about it. I'm ninety percent happy to see it, only ten percent wistful. He clinks glasses with Ben. Before he takes a drink, his eyes find mine. He gives me a cautious smile, then a real and glowing smile, raising his glass.

~.~

We're in line for the Coho ferry leaving Port Angeles when Eddie finally broaches the subject I know has been gnawing at him. I'm amazed he lasted this long. He's even gone so far as to soften me up with a milkshake from the Fish Shack. He relishes the term "Fish Shack milkshakes." Yum.

He takes a long pull on his straw, shuddering from the chill. "So, I'm trying to figure out why you aren't half as excited as I am to see this guy. I've never laid eyes on him in my life and I'm excited. Maybe that's why, huh? Or—oh, no. Did he lose his boyish good looks? You saw him and it was a letdown, huh? In my imagination, he had boyish good looks once upon a time. Don't ruin it for me."

I can't stop myself from chuckling. "Is there caffeine in that?"

"What do you think?" He holds his hand out, and we both watch it tremble like a leaf in the breeze.

"He's as boyishly good looking as ever."

"As ever, huh? Guess I'll have to discover for myself."

He's quiet for a moment, and I can only imagine the visuals he's conjuring up.

"I know you guys broke up the winter before you and I met…but you were on campus together until he graduated, right?"

The gates at the end of the dock have gone up, and the line of cars ahead of me starts moving into the belly of the ferry. I make a show of concentrating on maneuvering the car until we're parked aboard the ship.

"Um…we would have been. For part of my sophomore year—his junior year—we were on campus together...keeping a polite distance. But I spent my Spring semester abroad, and then when I was back, he was abroad." I roll up my window and get out of the car. "And then he should have been on campus for one last semester, but...it got complicated."

I flash him a look I hope says _it's a long story_.

Eddie sucks on his straw, hollowing out his cheeks. He's the only person I know who can look deep in thought while doing so. "Complicated, huh? So, off to France, left him in your dust, fast forward a decade or so to the hospital cafeteria?"

A memory comes to me out of the blue. A moment in an airport one summer—2007? 2006?—when a body brushed past me and left a wake of something that made my stomach flip. His breath, his hair, the smell of his skin. I never saw a face, not even the curve of a shoulder. I searched. I did. I reversed my steps and stalked the terminal for fifteen minutes, telling myself I had time to kill before my flight anyways.

"Sort of. Come on, let's walk up to the deck."

Between the driving distances and the ferry schedules, we have a long trip ahead of us. And I have a feeling I need Eddie to know this stuff. I start by telling him about Paris.

~.~

I never expected to see Edward on my last night in Paris.

I'd stayed on for the summer after my semester ended, using Alice's money to go in on a flat with two Egyptian girls named Kebi and Tia, whom I'd met through school. I told myself I needed a summer's worth of data on the parks, but I told Alice in my journal all about the crispy shells of _macarons_, the kids racing tricycles in the Luxembourg Gardens, and eating falafel in the street.

Rose was spending the summer backpacking around Europe, and I said_ Sure_ when she emailed me about crashing on my couch for a few days. We had worked out a vaguely friendly tolerance for one another by then. She needled me about going all out on my last night before leaving, and then Kebi's boyfriend Amun said he knew of a party in the 15th arrondissement, so—just like that—we had a plan for the night.

It was the end of August and hot. Rose made me trade my swingy skirt for her short tight one, and then nixed my sandals, promising that tight and short with tall, spiky platforms wouldn't look trampy. _Not on you, anyways,_ she said. Somehow, she was right. She tossed a blousy Joy Division tee my way, slashing and twisting the sleeves into ropy straps. I felt cheeky and powerful. We got ridiculous then, and she piled bracelets on me like matching wristbands and pasted a tiny constellation of glittery stars across my temple. I propped my packed luggage next to the door in case we were out all night, and we left for the Metro.

Rose planned on migrating from my couch to a hostel where her backpacking friends were staying, and Amun said _Sure _about inviting those friends to meet up with us at the party. It was the backpackers who brought Edward.

I saw the shape of his neck from across the crowded room, and then I saw Rose watching me notice. It was him, all right. Eventually I found myself standing next to him in the kitchen, smelling his clean soap and warm skin smell before I looked to my right and was sure. I bunched up my courage and turned my face and said, _Fancy meeting you here,_ and he saw me and blinked and said, _Yes, it is. Fancy._ I was taller in these shoes. We were eye to eye, and he was smiling. Without warning, the last year and a half fell away, and I was looking into the eyes I looked into every time we kissed. It confused me. It physically startled me, actually, and I backed away.

His smile faded as he nodded his head, his face retreating into that mask people wear when they meet strangers.

I knew I had about ten seconds of moxie left in me before I'd descend into some sort of weird confused crying jag, so I flashed him a lopsided grin and sauntered back into the living room, weaving through the crowd, hoping my ass in this skirt still looked the way it had an hour ago. I laughed at myself a little. This was how it was going to be, then. No matter how much time elapsed, I'd see him, and my knees would be jelly. But it wasn't exactly like when we crossed paths back at school. This time, I cared less if he caught me staring. And he did catch me.

I concentrated on soaking in all the messy energy of the night before a plane would take me back to my normal life. I munched on slivers of almond cake and tiny gruyere and mushroom pastries. I danced with Rose and Tia amidst a clump of flailing, sweaty strangers. Edward sat with Kebi and Amun for a while, playing dice. The news reached me that Edward was on his way to his own semester abroad in Italy. He'd be away through January.

It was late when I found myself sipping a third glass of champagne on a beanbag chair on the floor of the living room. A couple of American backpackers were parked on the sofa next to me.

"Isn't that the little cutie from _La Poost_?" I looked up to see the face of whoever was mispronouncing the French term for _post office_. He had a narrow forehead and a heavy jaw. He was gawking at somebody across the room.

A guy next to him sat with his legs splayed out, rubbing his crewcut with one hand. "Oh, shit, look at Edward."

I wondered where Rose had wandered off to. I let a few seconds go by, then threw a glance over to where Edward was leaning against the door frame, his head bent down close to some woman's head. She had wavy brownish-blond hair and a curvy body. I'd seen her before. She'd given me a hard time about not paying for my stamps with exact change. I shifted in my seat, self-consciously taking slow breaths to calm my twisting stomach.

"He's all confused." Crewcut made his hands into a cone and spoke in a muffled public-service-announcement voice, just loud enough for our little couch area to hear. "That's the mail clerk, bro. She's supposed to deliver packages to you. Not the other way around."

While they cackled, I downed the rest of my glass, planning my route out the door. I didn't necessarily need to see this. I rooted around in my bag for the wristwatch I kept stashed in there. Rose was oddly vigilant about hourly check-ins, but the next one was still a ways off. I sighed.

A shadow passed across me, and then Edward was sitting in the hard chair across from me, the naked bulb from the lamp making his hair glow.

"She shoot you down?" Ape-jaw twisted his mouth into a snide grin. "Aw, can't blame yourself. Maybe there's a general strike among government workers."

Snickers erupted from the couch. Edward's face was blank. "She has other plans." He took a sip from his beer and wiped his mouth, meeting my eye for a fraction of a second.

I don't know what came over me. Maybe the champagne made me bold, or else I was struck by some odd impulse to hand power to him, to make him bigger than these crude clowns. And so I said what I thought, loud enough so everyone could hear me. I crossed one leg over the other and rotated my ankle before I spoke, like I was making a grand entrance into the conversation.

"Her loss. She doesn't have the slightest idea what she's missing." My own voice sounded foreign to my ears, theatrical and oh-so-daring.

Edward kept his eyes trained on the beer bottle he was holding, scraping his fingernail in a line through the damp label. It seemed possible that he hadn't been paying attention.

I looked down at the tips of my shoes like I was playing coy. Except, I really was coy. To cover my awkwardness, or to follow through on this odd act I was playing at, I'm not sure which, I ran my finger around the inside of the champagne glass and put it between my lips, tasting sour and warm on my tongue.

The loudmouths on the couch were quiet now. When I raised my eyes up again, Edward was watching me. His eyes bored straight into mine. He leaned forward and set his empty beer on the table between us, and then—unbelievably—beckoned for me to lean in.

He cupped his hands around my ear and whispered. "Sometimes not knowing is better." Before I could straighten up and sort out what on earth he meant, he was gone.

Well, that wasn't how I thought that would go. I waited a beat before standing and teetering away, thinking it might look like _Wait a beat and teeter after me _was what he'd whispered. All I knew was I needed to move.

I opened and closed random doors until I felt fresh air, then darted out onto a narrow balcony and almost went flying, stumbling over legs. Edward's legs. His arms flew up to brace my shins, steadying me. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

"Jesus, Swan. Just take them off."

He had a point. These shoes were a hazard. I sighed as I eased my feet out and wiggled my red toes. Finally free. The stony balcony floor was cool and soothing under my feet.

"I didn't know you were out here."

He leaned his head back against the brick wall. I wondered if he was translating the view of dark purple skies and amber-lit buildings into a painting.

"Yeah. I'm out here."

I looked down at my abandoned pair of heels. I wasn't about to bend over in this short skirt to retrieve them, so I tried hooking them up with my toe. Then there was the matter of lifting my leg without giving an indecent show. I tried stooping over with my leg straight out in front, keeping my knees together by bending the other knee. Awkward. Edward watched.

"Am I bothering you?"

"No. I wouldn't call this bothering. I don't know what I would call it." He shook his head.

All I could seem to manage was to keep the thing dangling from my toe. He reached his hands out to still my ankle and pluck my shoe off. He passed them up to me one at a time, keeping hold of my bare arch. I looked down at him. He was gazing expressionless at the grey rooftops while he squeezed and pressed the muscles in my foot. His hands were warm.

"These shoes. Rose said…I thought…well, I figured I should do Paris proud. Try to glam it up."

"Glam, huh? Well, aside from being death traps, they suit you. They make you look…" I readied myself for this. He'd always had a certain way of seeing things. "Coltish. Like a colt. More so than usual."

I considered this. Colts were male horses, but there was no such word as _fillyish_. "So, not exactly graceful?"

His hands stilled on my foot for a moment, and a wry smile bent his lips. I could almost feel his gaze on my ankle. "Graceful is overrated."

"Not a foal?" I waited to feel the pad of his thumb stroke across my skin. I waited, but it didn't come. He resumed pressing the soreness away, never letting his touch turn into a caress.

"Definitely not a foal." He looked away from me, up at the sky. "That year or two…it's a big deal in the life of a horse."

His hands on my foot felt…comfortable. He'd always known how to do this without tickling me. Always. As in, more than a year ago.

I frowned. "Am I having a dream?"

He laughed out of the side of his mouth, pinching his cigarette with his teeth. "I really don't know. Other foot."

As long as we didn't make eye contact, this was fine. It was strange, but strange felt like what I remembered most about him, and at any rate we were on a balcony 5,000 miles from where we'd started, talking about young horses, Tunisian house music playing in the next room.

I switched feet. "So. Italy. I heard."

"Italy. In fall. Painting. It's practically a requirement."

"The light is supposed to be…something."

"I think I've heard that." He smiled and looked up at me. "I've always enjoyed how we understand each other, B."

I didn't really have a response to that.

"And what about you? Home?"

Non-sequiturs crowded into my brain, as if we were playing a word association game_._ _Here. You._ But I just said, "Yeah. Tomorrow."

He gave my foot a final squeeze and set it down before reaching to stub his cigarette out on the stony balcony floor. He looked out at the low, cloudy sky again. I couldn't look at any part of his face without remembering that furrow between his brows and his lower lip going slack. A lock of his hair grazing my forehead. The way he used to say under his breath _Look at me. Look at me_. And now: _Sometimes not knowing is better._ Was this what he meant?

"Well, I think I'll—" I turned to go.

"Wait." He levered himself to his feet in one smooth motion. "What I said to you before…"

I watched his eyelashes bat the air as he cast around for something to look at. He finally looked me in the eye.

"I didn't want you to do what you were trying to do."

I leaned my hip against the balcony railing and tried to read his face.

He glanced out into the night and back again. His eyes were dark. "Lumping yourself in with that girl in there. I wasn't going to do anything with her. But even if I did want to…"

My eyes blurred and cleared again; I didn't cry.

He continued, "Would you really wish that on her, knowing what you know? For me to make her feel something and then walk away?"

He held the wrought iron railing and locked his elbow, his ramrod-straight arm propping him up. His arm was a blockade.

Nonetheless, his body leaned toward me. "Well, you're wrong about it anyways. I mean, do you really think…this…is what she would feel? I was standing right next to her, Bella. As close I am to you now. Do you think her heart beat like this?"

He wasn't even touching me. I risked looking into his eyes, but they were focused somewhere around my collarbone. My chest was hammering like I had pistons working under my skin.

"Well…it didn't. Not hers. Not anyone's. No one but you."

"Edward…" I didn't trust myself to speak. I could already hear my voice breaking. What was I going to say—_hold that thought until you see me again in five months_?

He held my wrist and placed my hand on his chest. More pistons. His heart seemed stronger than mine. Wilder, even. He rested his temple on the top of my head.

I felt his thumb graze my brow, and he held up a glittery star in front of my eyes before dusting it to the ground. "I know how people like to talk and talk like nothing's private anymore. But don't become that person, Bella. Please. It isn't you. Don't even pretend."

Abruptly, he pulled me into a hug. I could feel the hammering in my rib cage now, his and mine. His hands were pressed to my back, unmoving, bunched into fists. I couldn't bear it. How could a person make me feel so safe and so shaken all at once? I need to say this while I still felt his arms around me.

"I still think about you."

It seemed like too much and too little to say. Too little because, well, obviously, and too much because _every day_ was implied.

He puffed his chest up with a sharp inhale. He was sweating.

"I know." I heard _Me, too_ in his voice. I was sure of it. He extended his arms and twisted away, all caution. "Bella, I can't do this. Not like this. I can't stay. I'm sorry."

He rotated me around to switch places with him on the balcony. "Here, sit."

"But you—"

"Sit. You can only see it from there." He squatted alongside me, helping me ease myself down to where he had just been sitting. I was still clutching my dusty platform heels.

"See what?" But then I saw it. Just a portion of the Eiffel Tower, floating above rooftops and in between two buildings. Call me blasphemous, but the thing hadn't captured my interest throughout this trip. It seemed so obvious and overly familiar. This view was different, though. It was like a secret.

"Oh. I like it like that."

When I looked back to see why he was so quiet, he was gone.

~.~

Eddie is staring into the middle distance with a glazed expression. "Christ, Bella. He was away until January? What happened when you made your move? Please tell me you did."

"Well. I meant to. I really did intend to." I take a deep breath. "I went to his apartment when I knew he'd be back from Rome. I had it all worked out in my mind. My grand gesture."

I smile in spite of myself. I had such a plan. Such a sweet little plan. Eddie is riveted. I feel my face fall into a frown.

"But nothing ever happens the way you expect it to. I never even saw him. I found Jasper in Edward's living room instead." The memory makes me clutch my coat closer. "His…pupils. I remember his pupils were too small. He was pretty incoherent, and it got worse as I sat there and talked with him. Bad enough to make me call 911. By the time they pulled up, he was vomiting and convulsing. I found out later that Edward left campus to take care of Jasper at home." I raise my head to look at Eddie. "And he never came back."

If he wants to ask me why I never made another effort, I'll tell him. I'll tell him what Jasper said to me that day, what he told me Edward told him. How Edward really felt. And how, after rereading my old journals all week, I can see he was right. For now, Eddie's face is mirroring my _too sad_ face.

The ferry sounds its horn—our cue to make our way back to the parked car, down a ramp into Canada, and beyond.

~.~

**AN: Thanks so much for reading!** **Many thanks to happymelt, midsouthmama, and faireyfan who multiply the fun for me (and minimize the errors and wayward rambles for you). If there really were a tiny habitable island to be found off the coast of Lopez, I'd totally have a party there with these ladies.**


	8. Chapter 8: Green

**AN: Sorry for the delay between updates this time. Real life stuff got in the way. Thanks to happymelt, midsouthmama, and faireyfan for beta and prereading help and general all-around fun times. Thanks to everyone for reading and coming along for the ride!  
><strong>

**~.~  
><strong>

**Chapter 8: Green**

Eddie takes the wheel after we cross the border into Canada, and I flip through the yellowed journal marked _1998-99_. A thick section of pages still bears dents from where I'd had them sealed together with a paper clip…a sort of tourniquet holding back the tides of uncomfortable memories. My face periodically turns pink as I review this unvarnished record of what was, once upon a time, my actual state of mind.

_~.~  
><em>

_November, 1998_

_Dear Alice, _

_I've got plans to hang out with that boy I like—tomorrow. He was loading groceries into his car when I cut through the lot yesterday, and he saw me and said "Hey, so, we should have dinner one day soon, huh?" as if we were old friends. I mean, he's in my Wildlife Bio class, but this is the first time we've spoken outside of that. _

_The funny thing is it didn't feel odd at all. I shrugged and said "Sure." He held up a box of spaghetti from a bag in his trunk, and I nodded. Okay, I also gave him a thumbs-up, which was dorky, but it made his mouth pinch into that not-laughing-at-you expression I've seen people make. And now I'm going to his apartment for dinner. Wish me luck._

_I'm not even sure he knows my name._

_~.~  
><em>

_November, 1998_

_Dear Alice, _

_Um, why did you never tell me this is what sex is like? One week in, and it's turned me into a shut-in and a chronic truant. I've missed so many classes. Okay, just two classes. Edward made sure I was on time to my poetry seminar Monday evening, and we both went to Wildlife Bio on Tuesday. But from Friday to Monday, I didn't even leave his room except to take showers. And once to watch him move around the kitchen in his boxers, cooking omelets. How do people ever get anything done?_

_Rose gave me a cocked eyebrow when she passed me in the dining hall yesterday. I think she can tell I'm wearing his T-shirt. _

_~.~  
><em>

_December, 1998_

_Dear Alice, _

_My dad is gone for good, I think. Renee guesses he's in too deep with his bookie or something. He raided their savings account, which is how she knows this time is different. She thinks the only way to get some security is to run off with Phil, so that's what she's doing. Some sort of road trip. I would say a second adolescence, but I don't think she ever had a first one, to be fair. She was so young when she had me. I'm supposed to "look after" the house while she's gone—never mind that I'm at college. _

_Can I tell E about this? Should I? He knows something's bothering me, but what am I going to say? "Oh, by the way, my family deserves to be on Jerry Springer." It's mortifying. Compared to this golden, beautiful family of his I've heard so much about? I can't. I just want to pretend that part of my life doesn't even exist. They have a counseling center here, and I guess I'll go. Maybe they can help me get a grip enough to be normal around him. He doesn't need to know there's anything wrong. If you were here, I think you would tell me to trust him—but if you were here, I'd have you to fall back on, wouldn't I?_

_~.~  
><em>

_December, 1998_

_Dear Alice, _

_What a great day. Edward came to my final presentation on land use legislation, which—okay, as much as I love it—had to have been a huge bore. That wasn't the great part (well, it felt kinda great, to be honest. But anyways.) There was a ton of snow on the ground, and you know snow never lasts for long around here, so we went sledding on lunch trays borrowed from the cafeteria, and afterward E made us hot chocolate using mismatched jelly jars for mugs and hung our wet clothes over the open door to the oven to dry out. He reminds me of a little wild boy sometimes, how he fends for himself, how he comes up with ways to do things. He's like me in that way—at least, like I wish I could be. _

_~.~  
><em>

_December, 1998_

_Dear Alice, _

_We had the stupidest argument today. He asked me if I liked a certain band, and I said I wanted to know if he liked it first, and he got super annoyed about that, saying I never just tell him my honest opinion about something. Well, it's sort of true, and I was too embarrassed to admit I'm that insecure, so I picked a fight—I said my honest opinion was that his hair looked ridiculous. So juvenile, I know. It's not even true! I love his hair. I guess I wanted to test how he would react if I had an opinion that went against his…but he wasn't even phased by it. He was like, "I'll shave it all off tomorrow. No big deal. I can be a presentable boyfriend you can show off to your friends—whatever." And that made me burst into tears, because there's no one to show him off to, and I can't admit that to him. And, also, is that who he thinks I am—that I would try to change him? And, third, I couldn't stand it if he cut his beautiful hair._

_So then I changed my story and made him promise not to cut it. He seemed baffled, and I don't blame him. Then I jumped his bones. It was kind of weird having sex while the tears were fresh, but it felt good, and he kept saying "Show me. Let it all out." I don't think I've ever gripped his hair so tightly in my fists. _

_~.~  
><em>

_December, 1998_

_Dear Alice, _

_I lied to E about Christmas. I couldn't bear the idea of him knowing I'll be alone—how absolutely pathetic does that make me? I wanted to tell him, but I wimped out. It's too much. I made up some story about spending the break with a cousin in Portland. I know it's wrong, but I can't stand the idea of him pitying me. The worst part is I won't even be able to call him to say Merry Christmas because if he star-69s me, he'll know from the area code where I really am. _

_He deserves a normal girl with a normal family. I wish I could be that for him. _

~.~

That's about enough.

I set the journal aside and keep Eddie company for the rest of the drive, helping him navigate the smaller and smaller roads leading through Lopez Island to the lot at the dock. I call Edward to tell him we're near so he can meet us with the boat.

Eddie and I rest our weight on the hood of my parked truck and look out over the water, arms folded, legs stretched out in front of us, not knowing or caring which of us is mirroring the other's body language. A shape appears through the thick mist of fog, and I begin to make out a small speedboat and, a moment later, its driver. He's standing at the wheel, hunched against the wind, his hair whipping wildly. Even from this distance, I can make out a tight smile on his face. His cheeks are tensed with the effort of restraining it.

"Oh, hell no."

I turn my head away from the approaching boat to see Eddie shaking his head, his jaw set.

"Nothing about that is boyish. My word." Eddie's eyes widen, and I look back toward the water to see Edward standing at his full height now, guiding the boat slowly toward the pier. His eyes flit between Eddie and me warily as he secures the boat and disembarks.

I introduce them, forcing myself not to stare at Edward, but I've already seen enough that my belly twists and my ears feel warm. There's no trace left of the haggard, unfocused Edward from the hospital. Instead, his posture is confident and relaxed. His eyes are lively and bright in an otherwise stoic face. I see every trace of the boy I once knew—but in the shape of a full-grown man I don't know at all.

He moves to help load luggage into the boat, faltering for a split second when he sees my truck. The paint has faded a few shades, but yeah, it's the same. He can't hold back his smirk as he presses his face to the driver's side glass, apparently reading my odometer.

"Impressive."

Eddie, who has been silent this whole time, snaps out of it. "A lot of people would have junked it by now." He follows Edward's lead and deposits his bag into an onboard cargo area. "But Bella's not a lot of people."

Edward stands up straight, dusting off his hands before reaching to help me step off the solid pier into the gently swaying boat.

"Yeah." He anchors me with his unflinching gaze. "I'm counting on it."

~.~

It doesn't take more than five minutes to reach Edward's island, but I can begin to imagine what a difference that five minutes makes. He's already told me they have no cars on the island, because they have no roads. That must also mean no corner store when you run out of milk, no heading down to the playground to see if any kids are around. No playground, period. The land mass that comes into view is like something out of another century: green, rocky, undeveloped. Smoke rises from a chimney obscured by trees. Further out, a wind turbine pokes into the sky.

"What are you thinking?"

When I glance up, Edward's expression tells me he's been watching my face.

I laugh and tell him the last thing that was running through my mind. "Wondering what you do when the fridge breaks down. You know, if you can't just run to Home Depot for a part."

"Fridge? Who says we have a fridge?"

My jaw drops, and I hear Eddie sputtering next to me—until Edward lets us off the hook by chuckling dryly.

"I'm kidding. Dad keeps spare parts around. And we have a back-up fridge, just in case. It's quite comfortable, you'll see."

Eddie is snapping pictures of the mist-covered island with his phone, frowning. "Fridges have parts? Who knew? I guess Emmett thinks about such things, because I certainly don't." He shrugs.

Edward nods, his eyes on the water. He's still not sure what to make of Eddie and has no idea who Emmett is. A few moments before we pull into the dock he clears his throat and turns to me.

"Hey…thanks again for making the trip. He's in a good mood, excited to see you. He even let us wash his hair this morning." He rubs the back of his neck.

"But?" I expect him to caution me about Jasper—to warn me that he's in bad shape or something.

"But...it's not just him. I'm glad you're here, too." He cuts the motor and steers us up to a wooden dock. "I want us to talk, B. Promise me that? Since you're here and all." He straddles the gap between the boat and the pier, bending to loop rope around some little anvil-shaped tie-downs.

"You mean since I'm captive on your island? How can I say no?" He looks up at me, surprised, but I'm smiling. I use his shoulder to steady myself as I step onto the pier. "Kidding. I was going to ask the same thing."

"Ugh. Are you two having a moment? Already? Just a second, big guy." Eddie uses Edward's shoulder the same way I did as he lurches out of the boat. "No moments until I'm on dry land at least."

~.~

A stony path leads around a sloping grassy area and into a sparse grove of trees, where a wood-and-fieldstone house is nestled. A couple of little dogs race past and around the back of the house, paying us no attention. The screen door nudges open, and I find myself calling up images of Edward's parents from their on-campus visit years ago, wondering if they've changed much, but what I see begin to poke out of the door frame is a mop of shaggy blond hair. Jasper. He shuffles sideways, leaning heavily on a cane, and his baggy clothes drape over his scrawny body, but he's smiling—sort of. I leap up the steps onto the porch just as his show of strength seems to reach a limit, and both of us sink onto a wooden bench. Edward is close behind me, while Eddie meanders up the path gathering my hastily-dropped bags.

He hasn't spoken yet, and it occurs to me that he might not be able to. I just wrap my arms around him, relying on Edward to stop me from doing anything wrong.

"Hey, Jasper," I whisper. "So happy to see you." _So happy you're alive. So happy you can walk._ Suddenly, all the adverse outcomes I never allowed myself to ponder appear in my brain, and I'm overwhelmed by relief and retroactive worry simultaneously.

"Okay, now." His voice in my ear only doubles the sensation. I need to get a grip. I make myself laugh to stop from weeping and sit up so I can take a look at his face. His left eyelid droops a bit, and the left corner of his mouth doesn't crook upward with the rest of his smile, but he still looks like himself. I recall Edward telling me over the phone that the way his mouth forms words is a bit different, but that he doesn't have any problems with aphasia.

"This is the first time…" He speaks slowly. I'm worried about how he'll finish the sentence; does he not remember me? "First time all three of us are together."

I lean to look at Edward, who sits at Jasper's other side with one ankle crossed over his knee, one large hand covering his mouth. He nods. It's true, actually. With the exception of my hospital visit, when Jasper was unconscious, I've only ever hung out with them separately.

Eddie clears his throat dramatically. "Make that all four of us. Hi, I'm Eddie." He reaches to pump Jasper's hand. "Eddie Masen. Bella's good friend. Mayor of Forks. And I sit on the government affairs committee of Wild Clallam in an _ex officio_ capacity. Very pleased to meet you." He pulls up a wooden chair.

Edward looks stunned at this outpouring of information, while Jasper looks amused. I feel oddly optimistic, as if I'm observing the beginning of something—not looking backwards—for the first time in a long while. Soon we'll all join Edward's parents inside and hash out the final logistics for tomorrow's dedication ceremony, but for now, all I want to do is sit on this porch with my friends and feel Jasper's warm hand clutching mine, alive and recovering.

~.~

Eddie springs into action during dinner, engaging Edward and Jasper's parents just enough to keep their curiosity about me from turning into an inquisition. Not that I wouldn't want to answer their questions—they've been warm and welcoming to Eddie and me since we arrived. But I hardly know what I'd say. Luckily, they want to hear about Wild Clallam, and I'm happy to talk about that.

Their dynamic at the dinner table is fascinating. Jasper takes an eternity to maneuver each bite of food onto his fork; the left-sided weakness visible in his face is also evident in his left hand. But he never seems to struggle or feel frustrated, and his family neither coddles nor ignores him. Edward speaks to his parents with the same unvarnished frankness I always found so peculiar. It isn't rudeness, though. It's more like a lack of sugar-coating. And what's sugar-coating but a form of manipulation, anyways? This place is like a Galapagos Island of manners, where honesty and candor roam freely like so many giant tortoises, never having known the threat of predatory outsiders.

I think back to his bewilderment during some of our more fraught arguments. _What are you so afraid of? It's just me_, he would say_._ I realize now that what felt like an attack on my insecurity was his own innocence showing itself. I hadn't learned yet that people can sometimes be relied on; he hadn't learned that there are those who can't.

~.~

Edward walks Eddie and our luggage over to a guest cabin behind the house, and I find Jasper doing physical therapy exercises on the porch. He's lost a lot of the bulk I'd noticed when he was in the hospital. Even so, I think he looks healthier than I've ever seen him. Especially the last time I saw him.

I glance at the open front door. "It's okay," he says. "We're alone."

I sit on the stairs and watch him step up and down, up and down. His hand hovers over the railing in anticipation of needing it.

"Jasper, I can't even tell you how much I appreciate your support for me and Wild Clallam. But I need to know if you're doing this as some sort of apology."

"No," he sighs. "And yes, maybe. I didn't know until this month…how much of an apology I owe you. And a thank you."

I shake my head. "How so? I don't see it that way."

"Now I know it was you who found me when I O.D.'d…by the way, I was convinced that was a hallucination—you being there."

"Hmm." I think about my letter, which I'm sure he's read by now. And whatever else he must have been told.

"The thing is…you went there to start something up with Edward again, didn't you? Bet you were a little surprised to see me."

"Yeah." I nod.

"Well, I'm sorry you had to see it. But you saved my hide that day, and I'm not sorry about that." He reaches out a hand to me, and I help him shuffle to the opposite porch railing, where he starts his routine all over again.

"Was it—I mean, were you…"

"It was an accident. Pure stupidity on top of stupidity." He's so quick to fill in the blanks, to reassure me.

"Oh. Good…I mean, that's better than the alternative." I look up to see him shaking his head. He isn't trying to be let off the hook for any of it.

"I just keep thinking…things could be so different now. I mean, he left school because of me…and I think—no, I know—if it weren't for me and my crappy addiction, he'd have gone after you. He looked for you, you know."

Now I'm the one shaking my head. I don't really want to hear this—not from him, not now.

"So that's why you started giving to Wild Clallam? Making amends? Or to keep tabs on me?"

"Uh, no, not really. I did it because those woods meant something to me when I was in rehab."

"Oh." The grey sky is turning to dusk. Jasper takes a seat next to me.

"You know, even if I had found Edward at home that day, I think it still would have been wrong. Based on what you told me…"

"I didn't understand what I was talking about."

"No, I know. Neither did I, at the time. But I get it now. And he was right."

I can see it in my memory like it was yesterday. The TV in Edward's apartment—the one he never used—was tuned to some entertainment station where an old jazz legend was being interviewed. I remember Jasper's head lolling. _A genre is like cement_, he'd said, this crooner. _After thirty years singing the standards,_ _I could feel it closing in around me, and I needed to get out, or I wouldn't be able to breathe. _He'd been explaining his leap into rock ballads and covers. The interviewer laughed and said something I couldn't hear. I looked at Jasper's shaking hands, fished Edward's cordless phone out from between the couch cushions, and dialed 911.

Jasper had turned to me, his eyes glazed and unfocused. _Edward says that about you, you know. 'That girl is like cement.' That was why he had to get himself away, he said. _

I answered the dispatcher's questions, all the while hearing that word ringing in my ears. _Cement._ I pictured a disgraced mobster sinking to the bottom of a dirty pond, feet encased in concrete.

Jasper is watching my face now, his eyes clear and sharp. "Wet cement, Bella. That was what he meant. He didn't mean you were trapping him or holding him back. It was the opposite. He meant he was afraid of marking you."

I nod, filling my lungs with air and thinking back to my old journals—the way I tumbled into the sensation of being with him, the way I tried to shape my identity around who he seemed to be or what he wanted, shoving aside my grief over Alice and my parents. "I figured that out, eventually. He was right, too. Everything overwhelmed me in those days. My heart was…totally raw."

"And what's it like today? Your heart?"

I stare at my fingernails. This is the question, isn't it?

"Go on. This thing tomorrow is a done deal—I'm not doing it out of misguided obligation. I like the program. I want to fund it. It's a nice night out there—try to enjoy it." He ruffles my hair and shoos me down the stairs.

~.~

I make my way back to the guest house. Eddie greets me at the door and—without a word—takes my shoulders in his hands and spins me 180 degrees so I'm walking out again. I look where I'm facing and can just make out Edward in the distance, sitting on an overturned canoe near the shore.

He looks up as I take a seat next to him.

"Is this the canoe you capsized? The time you got that scar?"

He brings his fingers up to touch his eyebrow. "You remember that?"

"Oh, I remember. Lot of things."

"Well, then…yes. Same canoe."

We're both looking out over the water, which is shining from the various lights on around the property. Otherwise, the night is pitch black.

"I thought for sure you'd be on the other side of the country by now," he says.

"Hmm."

"You were always so hell-bent on getting out of Washington. I mean, did I remember that wrong? Not even Seattle was big enough for you."

"I remember saying a lot of things that seemed like...what a college student should think. And, you know, I did feel that way for a while. I was so excited to be out of Forks."

"You could have gone anywhere. I wanted you to—you had so much ability."

"I got as far as Paris." I turn my head toward him and see him staring at the ground between us. "And I decided what I wanted wasn't the big city."

"But you had the choice."

"I did have a choice. That was important." I mull over the next few words. I don't think either of us is talking about where I live anymore. "But I didn't want to be set free at the time. I hated it."

"I know." His voice is quiet.

This is the talk, suddenly. Here we are—in the middle of it. I take a deep breath. "But it would have been a worse disaster if you hadn't let me go. I was totally out of my depth. I lied to you, Edward."

His head snaps up, eyes full of tenderness and something that looks like relief.

"About stupid things. I didn't go to Portland that Christmas."

"I know." That was barely a whisper.

I close my eyes, feeling strangely liberated. I hear him breathing.

"I wasn't angry, I hope you know," he says. "It just scared me. And it worried me that you couldn't trust me."

"I didn't know how. I didn't trust myself." I stare down at his shoes. Not shoes, actually. Bedroom slippers. And he's wearing flannel pajamas under his parka.

"Tell me you do now. Trust yourself, I mean."

I nod, wiping away tears from my cheeks.

"You have good friends, it looks like. You've built a company you can be proud of. You live with someone. Please tell me you're happy." His knuckles are white, clutching his own knee. When I start shaking my head, he narrows his eyes. His eyebrows crowd together.

"I'm happy. But I don't live with him. When I left the hospital that afternoon, I was going back to Forks to end things with him."

Edward doesn't say a word. He presses three fingers to his lips; I think he's holding his breath.

"Not because I was unhappy…I wasn't unhappy. And not because I expected anything. You know." I gesture to the air between us. "I just knew he wasn't it for me."

Edward is on his feet, walking a few paces away, walking back again. His elbows wing out from his hips. He stops in his tracks, close enough that I can see the dust on his bedroom slippers. He unzips his parka and tosses it aside, tugging at the collar of a sweater he has layered over his pajamas. He repeats the circuit a few times, adding in a hair tug now and then.

"Edward?"

"How long?"

I look at him, barely hearing.

"How long?" He stalks closer to me and raises his voice, somehow willing me to look up and meet his eye. "How much time do you need?"

"Edward—what? How long for what?"

Suddenly, he's crouching in front of me, his green eyes blazing, arms braced against the canoe on either side.

"I thought I dragged myself back from the edge of being in love with you all those years ago…well, I've been dangling there this whole time, in mid-air, and I'm exhausted." His breath comes out in cloudy puffs, warming my cheeks. "I wake up in a cold sweat remembering…you know. Everything. I reach for you like you're there, sometimes. I have these dreams—I thought they would fade over time, but they never did. Tell me you stopped feeling it—tell me it's different for you."

I shake my head. He places his palm against my skin, where my heart is fluttering like a caged bird. My eyelids fall closed, because every one of his fingertips is a trigger sending signals to armies of slumbering nerve cells.

"Bella—I know I should give you, like, some time, or show respect for whatever his name is but…enough, already. I've been waiting for you for so long."

He's shaking his head, and I see myself reach out to hold him still with my hands. That younger version of me would have stopped him to parse words, would have sought explanations and a way out of the overwhelming new territory, but I don't feel fear today.

Everything is clear to me in that moment—I know that _ten weeks, it was no big deal_ is the most terrible lie I've ever told. His face is what I see when I will my conscious thoughts to relax away, and his is the name I've always cried out when my hold slips and I lose the urge to bite back the truth. _Edward._ It's always been him. I pull him closer.

"No time, Edward. No time." He hears _No_ at first, and his face turns stony, but then realization dawns, and he softens once again. I see him smile, really smile.

His hands are in my hair, stroking and grasping. I remember this—it comes flooding back, all of it. He sweeps his hands over my face, taking stock. I watch his eyes brim. Then his lips are on mine. _Oh, these_, I think, _his lips_. His raspy breath, his tongue, the way he tastes—it's the same. Exactly the same. _He knows me. He belongs to me._ These thoughts of mine—they're the same, too. And something's different. He's not holding back now. He's not trying to shelter me.

I hike my thigh up and shift myself onto his lap, remembering too late that I was the one sitting on something to begin with. He slows my fall with his legs as we collapse to the ground alongside the canoe, and I can feel him trembling.

"Christ, B." He grunts into my neck. "I need you."

"Here? Right now?"

"Well, I mean, in the abstract, but yes, that, too. Except not right now. Or here, in the dirt. I didn't wait a decade for that," he murmurs through kisses in a line up and down my neck.

"Suit yourself."

He kisses me again, wilder now, laughing along with me. "Oh, Bella…Bella, Bella." He rolls onto his back, holding me to his chest, stroking my spine. "God, I've missed you. Just let me feel you now. I need to get used to you again."

I nod into the crook of his neck. I know exactly how he feels.

"And besides, Dad is going to be out here in about five minutes to call the dogs inside."

"In the middle of the night?"

I can feel his chest rumbling as he chuckles. "It only feels late because it's so dark. It's not even nine."

"Oh."

"Big day tomorrow."

"Hmm. How am I ever going to fall asleep, now?"

"Shh. Same as always. Just close your eyes. I'll bring you inside."

I breathe in his warm clean smell. "Edward?"

"Hmm?"

"I was only pretending to sleep a lot of those times. I…I liked feeling your arms around me."

I feel his chest expand and contract underneath me, a deep contented sigh. "Well, then, do that again."

And so I do.

~.~

_November, 1998_

_Dear Alice,_

_Okay, now that I'm not sleep-deprived and high on endorphins, I need to confess: I slept with him on our first date. I really did it! And, um, some other things, too. Are you shocked? Edward, I mean. Of course. I don't think he saw it coming. _

_I didn't expect it to be such an automatic decision, either. Am I easy? It felt easy. It felt amazing. All he had to do was kiss me, and I was practically tearing off his clothes. I should be ashamed of myself, I guess, but I'm not. He makes me feel right._

_It feels like the most naïve idea ever, I know, but it sort of seems like he was made for me. No eighteen-year-old should think about the word _forever_, but I secretly dream about it. I think he'll probably crush my heart, and I'll probably let him._

_~.~  
><em>

_October, 1998_

_Dear Alice, _

_That cute boy from the bench in front of the library is in my Wildlife Bio class. I think you'd approve. His name is Edward Cullen, and he makes my heart beat fast._

_XO, Bella_


	9. Chapter 9: Dreamers

**Chapter 9: Dreamers**

Oh. This dream…this is a dream I haven't had in years. I can feel the phantom weight of his arm draped around me, his knees bracing the backs of my knees. The heat of his breath warms the nape of my neck, and the bed smells like him—like _us_. The realness of this feeling used to make me wake up grasping the sheets, my face wet with tears. I stave off consciousness, even knowing this sense of wholeness and bright warmth will stay with me for days. I can't help myself; I hate the fast dissolve of waking.

But my limbs have ideas of their own, and despite what it always does to the illusion, I feel my arms tighten around his, seeking solid muscle, seeking a pulse.

This time, his arms tighten back.

It's not a dream.

I blink and flutter, twisting in the cool-warm mix of bedding. He's real, groggy, squirming to hold me closer. Half-aware, I mumble-blurt my way out of sleep. "How did you get here?"

His lips press the skin behind my ear and bend into a smile. "Just where do you think we are?"

I'm drunk with the heady pleasure of this non-dream, disoriented, filter-less. "I think…home."

This makes him freeze stock-still for a beat. In an instant he's hovering over me, kissing me hot and hard. His body is bigger than I remember. Stronger. These pajamas of his—it's coming back to me. Last night. The canoe.

"Wake up, Bella Swan. You're in a guest house out behind my parents' place on our little island in the Sound. And you're tossing around words I don't take lightly."

"Oh. Yeah."

Reminders of last night slip through his lips as he kisses my face. "It just felt so nice under the covers with you," he says. "You didn't seem to mind."

I'm still in my sweater and jeans. Fully awake now, I feel myself sliding into a different type of brainlessness, because he's right here, and I've wanted this. I think he does, too—I mean, I can feel how much he does. I remember how he never seemed self-conscious about his body's reactions to me. He also never let his body overrule his head.

Including now.

He pulls back slowly, rolling onto his side. His lips are pink, his face flushed. He looks at me steadily, mulling something over. I have absolutely no idea what he's thinking. What he's about to say. _They'll be looking for me…I should get back and help with breakfast. (Oh. Okay. See ya.) Can you reach the nightstand? I keep condoms in there. (Oh. Okay. And…really?)_ But he doesn't say either of those things.

"Let's take a walk."

~.~

The dense mist from yesterday has cleared out, giving way to blue-gray skies. We walk down to the shore, where I can make out shapes in the distance that must be my peninsula, with the Olympic range looming above. The Dungeness lighthouse winks at us.

The perimeter of the island is more rocky than sandy, littered with driftwood and thick strands of bullwhip kelp—a seaweed that has always reminded me of plastic hoses. Alice and I used to drag it around the beach and spell out messages for the seaplanes buzzing overhead. Or, rather, she would suggest words, and I would spell them out; she never touched the stuff. I tell Edward the story, and he laughs.

It's funny to think he's been this close the whole time.

"Have you been living here?"

"Hmm? Oh…no. Right now, with Jasper recovering, I alternate between here and Seattle about every three days. And I can always come for a month or two at a time when I want a change of pace."

He shows me the little one-room studio where he works when he's on the island; the drawings tacked to the wall are beautiful. Most are exercises and sketches, he says. He sits on a rough-hewn bench and trades his leather-soled bedroom slippers, now wet with dew, for some heavy boots. As we continue our tour, he tells me about the clients who commission his illustrations, the meetings and travel his work involves—and the freedom freelancing allows. I talk about my life and friends in Forks. The island isn't very big, and before long we've made a complete circuit. My hand is in his, and I can't quite remember when or how that happened. Eddie, out for his morning run, passes us by, trying to look nonchalant.

We've been talking about the new programs at Wild Clallam when Edward slows and stops walking, staring down at our hands. He lifts his eyes to look at me, clouded and conflicted.

"Listen, I need to…there's a complication."

I blink, flipping through a mental Rolodex of the possibilities. _Wife. Secret overseas family. Impotence._ I take a deep breath. "Tell me."

"Jasper is about to spring for five years' worth of operating expenses, B. That's a big deal." He tangles his fingers in mine more tightly. "If we start…I mean, I don't want it to look improper. You can't take that kind of donation, can you? If we're together?"

"I'm not with Jasper, though. I'm with you. It's a gray area, but…" I shrug. It's funny how I can visualize the paths before me—how clearly I know what I'd do if that were an obstacle. I'd choose him.

"Not the brother." He brings my knuckles to his lips, grazing them. "I'm the conservator of Jasper's assets right now. Since the aneurysm. I sign the checks."

"Oh." What was hypothetical for all of five seconds is suddenly very real. I pause, but only to marvel at how simple this feels. He's watching me, eyes tensed. "I'll step down. I don't think it makes a difference to Jasper…"

"You'll resign?" He raises his eyebrows, disbelieving, a smile tugging at his lips. "You'll run off with me and leave your life's work behind?"

"I mean it. I've been thinking about promoting my deputy to co-director anyways. She's ready to be Executive Director, with some coaching." I square my shoulders, feeling excited. Wild Clallam is important to me, but it isn't my whole world. "I loved starting it up; I loved building it. But I don't love being an administrator. I'm ready to launch something new."

He pulls me closer until I'm wrapped in his arms. "Just like that?"

"Mmm. Jasper reminded me about what I loved in the first place about that work. What I still love."

I remember standing with him like this once, a younger version of myself bewildered by what was in front of me. This time, I'm not trying to insulate myself from the happiness on his face. It's a thrill. He runs his hands up and down my back. "What do you love?"

I press myself closer and answer honestly. "I love…the wilderness."

~.~

I step into the kitchen after a quick shower, blotting my wet hair with a towel, to see Edward and Eddie facing off in front of the wood-burning stove where coffee is bubbling up in a metal brew pot. Edward is poised to pour milk into a mug that must be for me, and Eddie has one eyebrow raised as if to say: _confident? Final answer?_

Edward sighs and looks my way. He's sure he remembers, but not sure if my tastes have changed.

I chuckle. "I like what I like." I watch him grin and finish pouring my milk.

The three of us stand in a triangle sipping our coffee. I watch Eddie glance repeatedly at a particularly unruly cowlick on Edward's head, and I know he's resisting the urge to smooth it down, so I do it myself.

Edward breaks the silence. "Why do I get the feeling I'm in for a talking to? 'Don't you dare hurt her,' et cetera? Go ahead. Lay it on me."

Eddie snorts. "Not likely. We didn't get here by anyone following conventional advice; I'm not about to start now." He clears his throat and continues. "Besides…I hardly think you need to hear it from me. Either of you."

I pull out a chair and sit with my knees folded up, enjoying the unfamiliar bird calls and the sound of the waves lapping the shore.

I know Eddie's been waiting for his turn in the shower, but he makes himself comfortable and starts chatting with Edward in that no-boundaries way of his. Edward compliments him on his stove-tending abilities.

"These things can be a bear to deal with. Did you find some kindling?"

"Oh, I had a few things handy. Newspaper. Receipts. Criteria lists. You know."

I kick him under the table, unable to suppress my goofy grin. He chuckles.

"Tell me more about bears, Edward. Actual, not metaphorical. Might a person find one on the island, or are we too far from the mainland?"

~.~

The next few hours pass in a blur. Brunch involves a flurry of announcements and revelations. I take Jasper aside and walk him through options that will allow Wild Clallam to operate the program he wants to fund, only without my involvement. He grins his lopsided grin and makes me promise to join him on the trails anyways, which I do. I phone Siobhan and then Angela, talking them through my proposal for the executive leadership change.

Eddie drafts the necessary paperwork and points at places for me to sign. Carlisle and Esme quiz me about what I might do next, and we brainstorm ideas for a while. I still have some of Alice's money stashed away for dream scenarios. I can't say this to his parents without telling him first, but one of my criteria is that whatever I do, it will allow me to be where Edward is. Or for him to be where I am. Some combination of the two.

And then it's time for the main event…the reason I'm here in the first place. It's dusk when we all make our way down to the rocky shore, Jasper leaning heavily on Edward's shoulder. We watch a video feed on Eddie's iPad as Siobhan reads some prepared remarks about species diversity and the education of young conservationists, and she even thinks to pull Angela in to say some impromptu words as the new Director. Angela is eloquent and confident.

I look across the water toward the spot where I think Hurricane Ridge is, and even though I can't see them, I visualize them tying a ceremonial ribbon around a tree to recognize Jasper.

Jasper is bashful and tries to deflect the attention, but he seems to understand that his family needs this event to mark a sort of turning point.

There's a short display of fireworks launched from the sandbar at Dungeness, after which Eddie starts taking off his shoes and socks. "Sorry to celebrate and run," he says, thanking Carlisle and Esme, bumping fists with Jasper. "I can have these papers signed by the remaining parties and notarized tonight."

He nods at Edward and tosses me what I think is meant to be a significant look, but I'm still catching up. Are we leaving now? His duffle bag is beside him on the shore.

Beneath the rustling of the trees and the crashing surf, I hear the whine of a small craft engine, and a neon orange Zodiac four-seater pulls into view, piloted by a beefy man in a navy blue uniform. A huge Coast Guard vessel waits in the distance; Eddie has a way of making friends materialize.

"My ride is here." He catches a life vest thrown to him from the Zodiac and winks at me. "Make me proud, sweetheart." Within seconds, he's riding off on the shuttle, chatting amicably with his Coast Guard pal, hair whipping wildly.

I glance at Edward and realize: we're alone.

~.~

"Lift up your arms."

We're back in the spare room, curtains closed, lights blazing. He strips my sweater up over my head, pinning my straightened arm to the mattress and grazing my inner elbow with his lips. My inner arm, all up and down. Nobody else ever found that spot.

"I'm telling you now that I'm trying to do this slowly, but forgive me if I lose it."

I groan into his ear, already tortured. He slips his hand under my shirt where it's rising up at my abdomen, pressing his fingertips and then his mouth to the softness and the underlying muscles there. I feel him smile, and he squeezes my thigh between his thighs, urging me to nudge my leg higher, to bring him closer.

"God, look at you. Your little tummy. Look at how strong you are." He tugs until my shirt is gone and I'm lying here in my bra and jeans.

"It's called a solar plexus." My heart is still beating hard from how quickly we dashed here, and now I'm blushing because I'm babbling.

"Hmm? Come again?" He fans his hand out across my lower rib cage, summoning butterflies.

"There's a…chakra." I try to remember what Eduardo said that day in the park. "My yoga teacher says it's where my intuition is centered."

"Is it, now?" He finds the spot with his lips, a few inches above my belly button. It tickles and makes me laugh.

"I've thought about this." He chuckles softly, hearing himself say it. He crawls up my torso, and I feel his hair flop against my forehead. "So much."

"Me, too." I stroke his temples with my fingers and pull him closer, speaking to him between kisses. "Do you remember how…how quickly we…"

"Uh. Yes, I remember. This isn't too soon, is it?" He mumbles into smooth skin, his hands roaming. He turns me onto my stomach and unclasps my bra.

I laugh into the mattress. "Was it too soon that first time?" I can feel his lips traveling up my spine—another spot that drives me crazy. I feel the place where he stops and breathes open-mouthed, grazing his teeth along my shoulder blade.

"No. It was perfect. It was the one thing you never second-guessed." He pauses again, hovering over me. "Unless—"

"No. I never regretted that." I roll onto my back again, tossing the bra aside. I yank his sweater up, and he shakes his head to free himself, impatient.

"Hold still," he says. "I'm looking at you."

"I can see that." I love this look on his face. The first time I saw it, years ago, it made all my nervousness dissolve away. I stopped feeling anxious about what he might be thinking because it was all there in his eyes, in the gentle curve of his lips.

"You're the same." Edward's voice is raspy and low. He runs his hand down the front of my body from my collarbone to my waist before dipping his head down and beginning a slow trail of kisses. "And different."

"Good different?"

He answers me with a look. It's a sort of smoldering, smirking, what-do-you-think look. When he bends his head again, his mouth finds my breast, and there are no more words for a while. There are jeans to contend with, and standard precautions, and too many pillows in the way. The lights stay on. I shudder and clench him tightly, learning how hazy my memory really was, bursting with need to feel him closer. To keep him forever, this time. He does it, too, groaning and rumbling as we rock and pitch against the headboard together. He gasps words into my skin.

_Be with me. Stay with me. _

_Yes. I already said yes. _

_So say it again. For me. _

And so I say everything again, over and over, making sure he hears it, knowing I mean it. When I crumple and come apart in his arms, shuddering with this avalanche of sensation, I feel his hand cradling my head and his mouth slack against mine—silent, listening.

~.~

When I open my eyes in the dark night, I feel his body pressed to mine like a shadow—legs, arms, torso, head. I grip his forearm and feel him stir.

"I'm awake."

"You are?"

"You said my name in your sleep. I was listening to hear you say it again."

"I'm sure I will." I don't think I ever really stopped.

I twist around to face him, pulling his warm body flush with mine. Tomorrow, I'll tell him about the Edwards. I'll tell him I think I've always loved him…and that meeting him when I did made a dreamer out of me. I'll wait until the light of day and clearheaded wakefulness. For now, I just want to show him. Because I can.

~.~

Three days later, while the two of us wait in my truck for the ferry gates to rise on our drive back to Forks, I find a page from Edward's sketchbook tucked into my journal. He urges me to read it, saying _Come on, now. You let me read yours, didn't you?_

_Dear Alice, _

_How I wish I could have known you. Sorry to skip the pleasantries—this is only my first time writing to you, and I'm not all that sure about the protocol. I think you may have been told about me before now, but just in case: my name is Edward Cullen, and I've been falling in love with your friend Bella here for almost half my life. _

_She's so strong, Alice. I know she thinks you worry about her. She's going to have a happy life. She's been having a happy life, I think. I know it's always been in her thoughts, even back when I had no idea how to reach her, back when she didn't know she deserved to be happy. Not everyone strives so hard for such a thing from the get-go, and I think it's all because of your influence. She's told me so much about you these past few days._

_You'd be so proud of her. If it's all right, I'll be proud of her enough for us both. _

_My brother Jasper is coming up to your part of the woods in a few weeks—where Bella scattered your ashes. He's been there before, lots of times. It calms him. I like to think it's you up there, in the air and the soil somehow, sending out your vibes…I think, in a way, its true—because of how Bella channels her love into caring for the forest. It's like one big circuit. Well, now I'm linking myself in. _

_One more thing: thanks for being here for her. For keeping her whole. _

_Edward_

~.~_**  
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_**AN: **_Many thanks to **Happymelt** for betaing and to **Midsouthmama** and **Faireyfan** for prereading! And for making me laugh and blush and stuff. This story is winding down. One more chapter to go, I think. Thanks SO so much for reading!


	10. Chapter 10: The Road

**AN: Sorry about the epic delay this time! Life. Thank you so much for reading this goofy little story of mine, and thank you to happymelt, faireyfan, and midsouthmama for betaing and prereading. They always give great advice and would probably tell you to go after your own Edward, if you have one.  
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**Chapter 10: The Road**

_Never did I ever._ Flashes of last night's drinking game scroll through my brain while something else flutters around my tummy. Amusement? Standard-issue hangover nausea? _Never did I ever_ think I'd be here. In the park across from an office where I used to work, under the shade of a gazebo, wearing silk linen. Clutching a satin-bound bundle of stems. Perspiring.

I'm not the only one. Eddie, next to me, drags a finger between his not-exactly-a-minister shirt collar and the tanned skin of his neck. "Let's get on with this," he mutters under his breath.

I pick out my favorite faces amongst the flapping programs in the crowd. Emmett. Siobhan. Angela and Ben. Lauren. More Edwards than I ever expected to see in one place. Only one person appears to be oblivious to the heat, the stares, the nervous energy that inevitably churns through an event like this. His shoulders are squared and still, his hair a perfect swell. His smile is dazzling, even in profile. Every last fiber in his being is pointed toward the archway at the top of the grassy path, watching for that moment when it transforms from an empty space to a space filled with the rest of his days.

~.~

How quickly a few months can change things. When I'd returned to Forks after my weekend on the island, minus a job and with Edward in tow, I'd felt my gut clenching as I imagined explaining myself to Ed. _No, I didn't know this would happen. Yes, I should have realized it sooner. No, not a rebound. Yes, I'm sure. _Word about my quitting Wild Clallam had already reached him. _You're betting a lot on this man,_ he'd said. And then: _You look happy._ He said he was glad to see it, in the end.

Edward and I had stayed in Forks just a few days—long enough to gather some things and visit a few significant spots—before heading to Seattle and his neighborhood, his apartment, his bed.

And we drove. Back and forth to visit Jasper on the island, to Forks again, south to Portland and north to Canada and then to the dry, arid hills of eastern Washington. We logged enough miles to make up a cross-country road trip, it felt like. Edward sketched and phoned his clients from the passenger seat. We joked about never choosing a single place to put down roots. I dropped in on my contacts around the state, contemplating what I might do next, career-wise. But mostly, I made a full-time job of getting to know Edward again.

Being with him felt like a dream where you look down and realize your skin is transparent; he saw everything. Knew everything. Only this time, I knew I had nothing to fear. _Look at your heart beating,_ it felt like he was saying to me. _Let me take care of that._ And my nervousness would melt away. Or, when I grumbled at him, he would make a calm assessment: _You know I love a good debate, but you haven't had breakfast and you're irritable. Drink this orange juice before we throw down. _Then he would look at me with those clear, shining eyes of his and wait for me to speak my mind.

Eddie and Emmett's marathon at the end of May was a magnet drawing us back. Teddy was in Forks, all too happy to share stories of a childhood dominated by Emmett's overzealous competitive streak. Together with their parents and Eddie's parents, we all caravanned to Olympia. I sat next to Edward in Teddy's big green van, which smelled like bread, which reminded Edward of Teddy's kindness to his family at the hospital—and me of Teddy's kindness on his rooftop late at night. We staked out a spot on the sidelines and scanned the bobbing sea of numbered jerseys for Emmett and Eddie to come along and then rushed to meet them at the finish line once we saw them pass. Eddie's parents had him on video shouting incoherently about his slightly-better-than-average-for-beginners time before collapsing at the feet of a massage therapist in the finishers' tent.

Rose made good on her promise to come down from Seattle, meeting us at the Evergreen Lodge for our impromptu celebration. She sat beside me in a booth and finger-combed my hair, using the elastic from her own ponytail to put it into a loose braid. Edward slouched in his seat across the table, peeling the damp label from his beer and watching the two of us.

"That party in Paris, Rose," he said. "Did you know I was with those guys you invited? That they would bring me?"

I felt her hands smooth over my hair and come to rest on my shoulders. I didn't hear her respond, but I saw his face watching hers—changing, softening.

"You're a romantic at heart, Rosalie Hale," he said. "I always knew you had it in you."

I turned to face her then, and with her golden hair cascading around her shoulders, her eyes pale and brilliant, I felt like I was looking at an angel. And so, when Teddy slid into the booth beside Edward, my heart sank a little to see Rose was mostly studying Emmett and Eddie and Eduardo and every other cluster of strangers across the room, making polite conversation with Teddy but indifferent to his baker's forearms and his puppy-dog eyes and his infinite kindness.

Eventually, Eddie began nodding off, signaling the beginning of the end of the night. Sobriety was accounted for, and ride shares arranged and cross-referenced with brunch plans until the bar was nearly empty.

I stood and held my arms akimbo while Edward fastened and belted my raincoat. I peered over his shoulder at one last remaining person, sitting with his long familiar legs folded comfortably among the rungs of a bar stool, munching snack mix and rehashing Mariners stats with the bartender. Ed.

He raised his hand in a wave, and I watched his hair being blown back by a breeze when the door opened behind me. His face went blank. I turned and saw with strange clarity what he would be seeing: all blonde and flowing, tall and strong, one foot in and one foot out, Rosalie Hale with her head cocked to the side, a question taking shape on her lips.

He was on his feet before she even began speaking. Before she said the words it turned out he'd been preparing all his life to answer. _Hey, my tires are stuck in a ditch. Anybody here who doesn't mind getting a little muddy?_

_~.~_

And now, four months later, here we are. She never did use my guest room that night. She went from the doorway of the Lodge to the hood of her car in less time than it took me to find my umbrella—and Rose is not a hood-of-car sort of girl. The distance from that moment to this one was correspondingly short.

When she rounds the bend at the top of the path, I find myself trying to mentally will her to cover the yardage just a little bit faster; I'm straining to hear the truths they are both about to tell.

I hold her bouquet and think about the word _Yes._ I feel the rightness of it as they say it to each other. _Yes. Yes, I do._

Later on under the massive white party tent there are toasts, and varieties of food skewered on toothpicks, and dancing. These little crispy tart things are good—pear and Gorgonzola, I think. Edward watches me shift from one foot to the other in my strappy heels. I'm looking around for a napkin to clean my hands before I begin unbuckling my shoes when I feel him move his arms around me as if he wants to waltz.

I grimace and wave my sticky hands in warning, but it doesn't matter, because he's lifting me off my feet and carrying me outside into the shadows where no one will see him clean my fingers with his mouth. He makes an enterprise of it, moving on to the palms of my hands and then my lips, for good measure.

The muted strains of jazz standards filter through the canvas walls of the tent. I hear voices murmuring and glasses clinking—the din of a party in full swing. I'm happy for Rose and Ed, and I imagine they'll be cutting the cake and throwing the bouquet soon, but going back inside holds no interest for me.

I lean my weight on Edward and breathe in his end-of-a-long-day scent. I'm thinking of his hands unbuckling my shoes, the pad of his thumb soothing my arches, the way he won't stop at my ankles this time. I think of his scruffy beard tickling the skin next to my kneecap.

"Take me home."

He grins broadly and hoists me onto his back for the short walk through the streets of Forks.

~.~

In the morning, I clear the last of my personal belongings out of the house and lock it all up in the shed, making sure my Alice journals are tucked safely on a high shelf. Everything will be tidy and clean when Rose and Ed come home from their honeymoon and begin their year-long lease. Edward and I do one last gear check and head out on the road—finally, just him and me.

~.~

_Dear Emmett, _

_The hills are insane in San Francisco. Promise me you'll sign up for the Bay to Breakers next! Miss you. EC says hi. _

_Love, Bella_

~.~

_Dear Jasper: _

_Big Sur is gorgeous. Your song came on the radio while the sun was setting off the coast. Wish you were here. _

_B & E_

~.~

_Eddie Dearest-_

_L.A. is terrible. Wish you were here._

_Bella and Co._

~.~

_Hello, Cullen Family (and Lopez Island post office workers who might be reading this postcard),_

_Edward says thank you for raising him the way you did and not in a place like Las Vegas. We're having a fantastic time, but only because we can leave whenever we want to! _

_Meet us in New Orleans for Christmas? _

_Love, Bella and Edward_

~.~

_Eduardo, _

_Grand Canyon. Dude. Thinking of you! _

_-B_

~.~

_Hi Ted, _

_Found a little bake shop in the middle of small town New Mexico that I think you'd like. Sweet old-timers whiling away the time, gossiping over coffee. The bread makes me miss home. _

_- Bella _

~.~

_Eddie, _

_It's getting pretty snowy in the mountains. Edward's driving improves daily, but he's still not ready for that, so we're sticking with the southern route through the winter. Will do New England in the spring and back via Colorado in summer. _

_We miss Forks—both of us. _

_Love, Bella _

~.~

_Rose and Ed, _

_Heard your big news…Congratulations! So excited for you both! I know we'll be back in time to greet the little one. If you want the house for longer, it's yours. Or, heck, make me an offer. (EC and I want to build something in the woods on the outskirts of town when we come home.) _

_- Bella_

~.~

_Edward, _

_You won't get this until we're home, obviously, but I just wanted to say: "Having a wonderful time. You are here." _

_All my love, _

_Bella_

~.~

The End.

**~.~  
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**AN: Thanks again! See you around!**


	11. E1POV Outtake

**AN:** I originally wrote this for a fundraising effort in support of the Colorado communities destroyed by wildfires. Thanks to everyone who gave to that effort! Many thanks to **happymelt**, who served as beta for this outtake, as well as **midsouthmama** and **faireyfan** who preread. If you haven't read Always an Edward, this won't make much sense (so go read it!) . . . but if you have, this is taking place around the end of Chapter 5 (and flashbacks).

**The Bella Pages **

**(An "Edward One" POV from Always an Edward)**

Evergreen branches. A study of window panes in different qualities of light. Window ledges. The hospital parking lot, viewed through yet another window.

It's been years since I was in the habit of carrying my sketchbook everywhere. Now that illustrating is my livelihood, I tend to work during specific blocks of time I schedule for myself. Otherwise: burnout. All bets are off now, though. The book is a crutch, for sure. It doesn't bother me to admit it. I'm grateful to have it. To have something to do, some comfort. It always helps. Always.

Here in this hospital cafeteria booth, under fluorescent lights and with sleep deficits stacking up, I need whatever I help I can get. I tried making a few gesture drawings of strangers deep in thought. Deep in the clutches of some feeling, uncaring whether anyone sees.

I gave up after filling a single page. All that emotion right there on the surface, and me not in the mood for voyeurism.

Then there are pages and pages of "pattern studies"—also known as doodling. More organic sketches. Rings from our coffee cups, grease spots from . . . I don't know. Top Pot donut crumbs, I guess. And here are Mom's notes from when Jasper's doctor called and she didn't have a pad handy.

_CSF pressure—watching—outlook—VS?_

The dashes are a nervous habit of hers. And the way she scrawls even the commonplace words. I've been in that moment. You write everything down, not knowing what might be significant. We know by now VS stands for vasospasm—a serous risk in the aftermath of an aneurysm. But what did we know at the time? Hanging on the doctor's every word, straining to turn the cell-phone-roughened edges of words into promises and meaning. I'll tease Mom about it later: "He says the _outlook_ is good, Edward. Do you think _outlook_ is an acronym for something? Should we WebMD it?"

But the teasing will wait. He's not out of the woods yet.

Out of the woods. Odd figure of speech. He prefers it the other way around. We all do, to some extent—tree-hugging comes packaged with the island homesteading life—but no one quite matches Jasper's level of enthusiasm for the forest. I was surprised, and then again not surprised, to see more evidence of it in his desk drawer when I went looking for his health insurance policy the other day.

It was stuffed in there amongst the orderly files of paid bills and income statements. I didn't even try to stop myself from pulling it out when I saw her name on the edge of a piece of paper. On letterhead, in fact. _Isabella Swan, Executive Director_. _Wild Clallam, Founded 2004. Forks, Washington._

_Forks. What are you still doing there?_ was what I thought. _All these years later_. At the same time, did I mentally calculate the distance? The route, the ferry schedule? Maybe—as an escape. As the first place I'd turn if something made me flee the hospital where my brother, my best friend, was being held hostage by his own brain. _Something_, I say. I can't name it. Unhelpful train of thought. I'm so tired.

And then, flipping through the brochures and annual reports, I'd thought: _This is what you're doing._ _Look what you built_. I didn't wonder if she was free of the ghosts that pulled her out of herself so often when I'd known her. Not yet. No.

What I wondered was what she looked like. I thought of her eyes, the way they might crinkle at the corners, more knowing than innocent. Then her hair. _What if she wears it short?_ Silly.

There was other stuff in there. A stack of receipts for gifts processed through Jasper's attorney. All anonymous. All roughly equivalent to what he used to call, bitterly, his _recklessness budget_. He'd come to hate that money. We all hated what it allowed him to do. Until one day, deep into rehab, he stopped mentioning it. I guess he'd found a way to make peace with it.

How long ago was that? A week? It had to be after that first 48-hour window when none of us even left this building, when the outside world didn't exist. Back when all we could do was scour the second-floor library and the Internet for anything we could learn about brain injury recovery. But before the calls with Jenks about me filing for temporary guardianship, before Mom's idea about the tribute gifts to Wild Clallam, before realizing the only decent thing to do was to call the person who would be on the receiving end of those checks. _Isabella Swan, Executive Director._

I don't like to revisit those 48 hours. One minute he was giving me shit about my record collection being an old-fashioned pain in the ass, and the next he was face-down and moaning in a pile of safety glass where my coffee table should have been. My first thought, ridiculously, was that he'd been shot. I tried to pry his hands away from where he was clutching his head, hoping to staunch the blood, but there wasn't a scratch on him. I remember looking for my phone and finding it already in my hand, my thumb already punching 911.

Calling Mom that day was possibly the hardest thing I've ever done. Among the hardest. I've had to call her before when Jasper was in trouble, but none of those incidents were a surprise. Not like this. This time . . . he's been sober for years, for one thing. He's in the best shape of his life. Was in, anyways.

Thanks to the verbal shorthand my family shares, the product of spending formative years sequestered on an island like a sociological experiment, conversations like this one are efficient.

"Mom."

"You sound . . ." Meaning: I've never heard your voice like this.

"Yeah. Don't panic, but it's Jasper. Can you come? Dad, too."

"Where?" Meaning: I'm trying not to panic. Trying not to let you hear my panic.

"Seattle General. When can you get here? Get Garrett." Garrett pilots a light plane. It's faster than the speedboat and ferry combo.

"Oh. Is it . . .?" Meaning: overdose?

"No. He just collapsed."

"Who's with you?" Meaning: you're my son, too.

"No one."

This is the hard truth. I have some friends, and sometimes I'm dating someone, but he's the only permanent one. If he's not with me, no one is. I can't lose him.

And so the rest of those initial 48 hours are shut away behind a memory firewall.

There's a crowd of teenagers in the next booth. Somebody's cousin had a baby or something. One of them is drinking tea. I want some tea, I think. But I don't want to walk across the room. I'll eat my orange, maybe.

I turn my attention back to my sketches. Here's some sort of figure hunched over a book; I can't see a face. I've drawn the figure repeatedly, in variations on this posture. Don't feel compelled to draw a face. I think it's me. _Self-portrait, facing away._

When I need an outlet, the sketchbook always works. But there's this other thing. Something more potent but less practical. Less under my control. It's a dream. A self-induced dream. Always her.

It starts with a sort of slideshow in my head: a lock of hair tucked behind a pink-white ear; snowflakes on a wind-chapped cheekbone; homemade breakfast sandwiches on a cast iron grill. Almond pastries and the impression of a too-tight ankle strap on her cool bare skin; the soles of her feet dirty from the dust of a disused balcony. The Eiffel tower, seen through a narrow gap between buildings.

Nobody ever told me falling in love was an upward sensation. Nobody ever told me it felt like being lifted and going backward at the same time—backward only because you keep searching your memory, thinking: I've met her before, haven't I? Why do I already know her? When did we meet? How did she learn to make me smile with her smile like she's been doing it all her life? All her life and mine? Or is it our life? Or was it our life?

And then when we met again and I really had known her before, the sense of déjà vu was enough to make me dizzy. The spiraling upward and backward yet again. Again.

The sequence gets confusing, see. The pronouns and the tenses, the plurals and singulars. This isn't the only reason why I draw instead, but it's a reason. Drawing excuses me from assigning past and present values; a drawing just is. This is her on the page. That's her. That's her, too. Bella.

When I met her again that time, it was because I broke my promise to myself and went looking for her. I told myself I was only going to Rome to study the Masters, not because it put us both in Europe for the summer. I told myself it made sense to see Paris before the start of my semester. I told myself it wouldn't hurt to reach out to some people who knew some people who would know her. And when she was standing next to me in the middle of a sweaty house party, I told myself I couldn't very well cross paths with her halfway around the world and not make friendly conversation. As if I hadn't engineered it exactly that way.

But what I wasn't ready for was how changed she was—changed and also still mid-change. How tentatively confident, how out of place and how striking. The new strength in her thighs. The struggle in her eyes when she looked at me.

She used to say to me, _I know you're going to change me. I want you to. _It scared the living shit out of me. _You don't know what you're saying_, I told her. _Be true to yourself._ And other nonsense people say when they don't trust themselves to leave the right kind of impression on another person.

And so here she was changing herself, just as I'd hoped. What was I meant to do? I wanted to feel her underneath me on the dusty fieldstone balcony, to know those new muscles with my hands, with my mouth, to coax that whimper of pleasure out of her that I'd never heard from any other girl's lips.

But then I would have been letting her go again. Trying to. Failing.

She's nearby now. In the city, anyways. When Jenks called this morning to recap the discussion with Wild Clallam, I felt an odd rush to hear her name being spoken out loud. As if in confirmation that she's real, not just a figure in my memory. Of course she's real.

And she's here in town. She came for the meeting, only to leave the meeting. This gives me a puzzle to sort out. To be totally honest, I felt an odd tug of hopefulness in my gut when Jenks mentioned it. People recuse themselves from meetings when they have a conflict of interest. Divided loyalties. I wanted it that way, I realized. It was nonsense, and selfish, but I wanted it to be about me. I chalk it up to exhaustion. So be it.

I'll see her again. I don't consciously decide this, but I know it nonetheless. Maybe now, or soon. What the hell. I'll seek her out when this is all behind me. I know I will.

I peel and eat my orange, then tidy the peels into a pile. I put my sunglasses on and observe the teenagers until they stumble out, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. I'll head back up soon.

With each passing day, I feel the effects of adrenaline less and less, true exhaustion more and more. And I've passed a threshold of understanding what traumatic brain injury entails, such that my mind is constantly running through a circuit of possible futures to prepare for. He'll regain consciousness, but not speak. He'll speak, but with great difficulty. He'll never play the drums again. Never hold a pen or a fork again. Or he'll be perfectly healthy again within weeks. Or something else in between these extremes. Like I said, it's exhausting. I need a hot shower. I need to eat a proper meal.

So maybe I'll sleep. Maybe just rest my eyes.

When the dream begins, it's something new. I see her ear and her cheekbones like I always do, but this time I'm trying to draw them. Only I can't. My sketchbook keeps steaming up. I wipe the steam away like I'm wiping a window, and my ink smears. It's no use. Steam is everywhere. Then she's taking the book out of my hands, saying _Is it ready? Ready, spaghetti?_ It's a cold day in my college kitchen. Not any cold day—that cold day. That pasta dinner. Our first date.

Even in my dream, I'm not sure if I can see it through. Because I know what's coming next. I've never dreamed of this. Haven't thought of it in years. _Should I?_ I think. I look around—in dream mode—for a Close Screen button, just in case. Then I give up and I look around for a Save and Print Screenshot button instead. I know what's about to happen, and it does happen: she looks at me with those eyes that already know me and wipes the hair away from my steamed-up forehead. She says _I just want to try one thing_ and she kisses me, smiling and relaxed as can be. She turns the burner off under the pot of noodles. She turns the burner on under me, inside me, slow and steady. I don't stop touching her until I have her in my bed and I never see even a glimmer of hesitation in her wide-eyed face. Nothing but trust. And this time I know it when I see it: Trust. And I don't stop dreaming of it. She shows herself to me like she's known me forever, shows me where she wants my hands, shows me where she wants me. She is beaming and pink, panting. _I did that. Did I do that? _

Then we're asleep, and I'm watching her sleep, watching myself sleep. I hear my roommate in the kitchen, murmuring about wasted food, cold pasta and sauce on the stove. Bella stifles a giggle against my shoulder. The alarm goes off and I unplug the clock.

And then things start feeling familiar in a different way, like déjà vu. I'm in the cafeteria, smelling of mint tea and oranges, and she's here, too. The light makes her eyes glow. Her hair is messy and long—longer than I usually imagine it, even. I feel for the strength of her arm under my hand, and it's real. It's damp, and warm, and real.

She's real. I'm awake. "Oh," I say. "Sorry. Hi."

"Hi," she says, smiling and blinking. _Hi._


End file.
